


The Singer Dichotomy

by paleogymnast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventy years ago, humanity was confronted with its future. These mutants weren't welcomed as superheroes. Hypersensors, with superhuman senses and enhanced reflexes, were regarded with suspicion, but partially integrated into service positions; while hyperempaths, with enhanced empathic and telepathic abilities, were reviled, ostracized, and oppressed.</p><p>Thirty years ago, world-renowned civil rights activist and evolutionary biologist Mary Campbell was assassinated. One shot changed the course of history, and the planet teetered on the brink of war. One boy's secret restored the balance. </p><p>Today, FBI agents Dean Singer and Sam Campbell must solve a thirty-year-old assassination plot or watch the tentative understanding between humans, hypersensors, and hyperempaths evaporate. But who killed Mary Campbell, and why? What was Mary's secret? And how is it tied to a string of murders and a terrorist plot? Can Sam and Dean uncover the truth before it’s too late? Or will Mary's worst fears come true?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to engel82 and Carlos for their feedback and beta, respectively. All remaining mistakes are my own. This was a last-minute entry for the 2014 spn-j2-bigbang. Many thanks to the bigbang mods and my artist [chosenfire28](chosenfire28.livejournal.com) for making this possible.
> 
> Please check out the beautiful cover art [here](http://chosenfire28.livejournal.com/296321.html)!

**Prologue**

The prevalence of superheroes, mutants, aliens, and other humanoid beings with enhanced or “evolved” abilities in twentieth and twenty-first century fiction and media has fueled a near-endless debate in pop culture as well as academia. X-men, sentinels, guides, augments, mutants… is the appearance of fictional characters with enhanced traits we now know to exist in reality a result of the authors and artists creating stories to express their own experiences? Was Stan Lee a “sensor” or “empath”? Did Gene Roddenberry have friends with “superhuman” abilities? Was George Lucas really inspired by spaghetti westerns, or was he playing out his own personal fantasies on screen, imaging a world where people who could bend your mind, perhaps overwrite your thoughts, were persecuted heroes rather than unknowns and outcasts? For that matter, were Jules Verne and his Nineteenth century counterparts examples of homo sapiens with hyperacute senses (those commonly known as “sensors” and hyper-developed empathy (“empaths” or “emos” in modern slang)?

Evolutionary biologists will tell you the mutations responsible for the traits associated with the sensor and empath populations (and don’t risk calling them subspecies or you’ll just spark another debate) have been in the human population for at least 1000 years. They’ll also tell you individuals with the phenotypical presentations of modern day sensors and empaths have been showing up in human populations for at least 400 years. So, there is every possibility that your favorite nineteenth, twentieth, or early twenty-first century sci-fi or comic writer really was a sensor or empath, or knew someone who was.

But if that’s the case, someone always asks, then why did it take so long for sensors and empaths to be recognized? (And had they been recognized sooner, would integration of these “classifications” have been smoother? Or would the period of discovery be an even darker time in our collective consciousness?)

And that’s where the debate moves out of the province of hard science and into the realm of sociology—at best—or metaphysics. Was it critical mass? Did we not see the mutants right in front of us because isolated cases were easy to ignore or explain away? Or was it the inverse? Once we give a condition a name, it was easy to identify those who fit the diagnosis?

Or, others ponder, did critical mass play a different kind of role? Did these _abnormal_ abilities gain strength through numbers? Anecdotal evidence suggests empaths’ emotional and thought projection abilities increase by an order of magnitude for every dozen empaths in a given population. The now mostly discredited _Azazel–Zachariah_ studies also strongly support this possibility.

On the other hand at least two non-discredited studies suggest sensors become _less_ comfortable with using their special skills in the greater concentration of sensors in their vicinity.

Of course the _Campbell-Shirley Accords of 2065_ outlawed “experimentation on mutants,” and a combination of volatile political climates and vocal activist groups and anti-mutant movements have made reputable, peer-reviewed studies into psychosocial characteristics of _hyper_ -humans almost impossible, so we may never know the answers to these complex and fascinating questions.

So, for the time being, the debate will continue.

Instead, I pose these questions to you. What do you believe? Why do you believe it? What would you like to learn about your fellow inhabitants on planet Earth?

Now look to the people around you. Remember, while you may not know your classmates’ registration status, statistically one in ten is a sensor or empath. What would you want your classmates to tell you?

—From Everett Crowley, Director FBI Psycho-Evolutionary Analysis Task Force, Graduation Address, University of California, Berkeley, June 7, 2075.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_2098--Seattle--Unified Federal Earth_

December dawned cold and bright, clouds parting in a rare winter sun break that did very little to penetrate the gloom. The sun shone for brief, fleeting moments before the drizzle returned, slow, fine drops like icy knives falling from the white sky above, continuing the too-cold, too-damp chill that had begun at Thanksgiving and stuck around. Meteorological misery was here to stay, and with it came a new kind of horror... a mystery that appeared far too simple at first, but would soon spiral out of control, tugging on the insidious threads of a tapestry woven long ago, hanging unseen, unnoticed in a not-so-changed world.

The first body was found on a Tuesday. She was a young agent. Two months out of Quantico, top third of her class, human female, from Vilnius, Lithuania, and stationed out of the Lawrence, Kansas Field Office. None of that explained why she was found on the steps of the Seattle Field Office, outside the entrance to the Integrated Special Command's headquarters, arranged to look like she was sleeping, but for the hand-written, woodpulp paper note addressed to Special Agent in Charge Dean Singer, crammed inside a plastic sleeve and stuck to her chest by means of an antique silver dagger through the heart. 

None of that explained why it wasn't the dagger that killed her. Or why her cause of death was not obvious. Or why the mote proclaimed she was a hyperempath, "hiding out among the humans, undetected and unsuspected, but the tip of the iceberg, the point of the spear of an infiltration of the ranks of human government and governance that, when exposed, will bring the world to its knees..."

Nothing explained why her ID said "human," but the note said "empath" and when DNA tests were run (in secret, under false pretenses at the teaching lab), that they confirmed what the note said, belying her ID. Nothing explained why the cause of death, when found, was an overdose of a drug used to treat a seizure disorder common in empaths, a dose that would not have been fatal for a human.

Nothing explained why the note went concluded with message directed to Dean and his task force specifically when the announcement of the task force's creation wouldn't even be announced to the general public until next week.

_Mary Winchester started it, and the disease has spread. They are everywhere and we will lay them bare. Can you stop them Agent Singer? Is your taskforce up to the task? Or will you be part of the problem?_

Dean had to read the note twice, then three times before sending it off to the lab for analysis under strict orders of secrecy, his-eyes-only. When he was done he go up, headed to the semi-private bathroom between his and Deputy Director Benedict Crowley's office and emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet. 

He didn't understand--couldn't put a finger on it exactly--why the case unsettled him so much, why he spent two hours after the agent's body was found pacing around his office a deep, sinking feeling of dread permeating his entire body, a flicker of familiarity and _fear_ tickling at the base of his brain... He wasn't sure why Mary Winchester's name was the most unsettling piece of the puzzle.

~~~

The second body was found on a Thursday, just over a week later. The murder was nothing like the first... different victim... different method... different cause of death... different everything.

Except in all the ways it was chillingly exactly the same.

The call came in at 0600, the buzz of Dean's phone jerking him awake, face instantly springing up from where he'd it had been pillowed on a stack of hardcopy--murky, nonsensical dreams about brothers and missions, the fallen queen and the lost prince, sliding from his mind like water rolling off treated glass. "Agent Singer," he answered groggily, hoping it didn't sound like he'd been sleeping at his desk. 

"Special Agent Dean Singer?" an uncertain voice asked, sound projected in his ear with crystal clarity. 

"This is he speaking," Dean replied, cringing inwardly. Any conversation that started with someone being unsure if they'd reached the right Agent Singer was headed nowhere good. Most of the people he worked with knew him, sought him out because of his skills, his background, or his pedigree. Others wanted his team's special... abilities, something that was sure to come into play all the more now that they were becoming fully integrated. But those who sought him out because they had no other options or because they were directed to... those who could sound as lost as the guy on the other end of the phone call, they were always bad news.

Dean waited, ignoring the telltale tick in his jaw that was a harbinger of even worse things to come. Hoped the moron on the other end of the line would find his voice before Dean either snapped at him or fell back to sleep. 

"This is detective Aaron Ford from DC Metro Police. I--there's a body, something here you need to see."

Dean cursed inwardly and ran his free hand through his hair. _Too long._ He knew it was standing every which way, but couldn't bring himself to care. "Why don't you just tell me—" 

"No sir, the Secret Service says this is for your eyes only and I'm afraid I have to agree..." 

_Well, it had been worth a shot._ "You lost the coin toss, huh?" he quipped.

"Uh, yes sir." The uncertainty was back. "How did you k--"

"Never mind," Dean cut off Detective Ford, hand waiving uselessly in the empty room. _The call was audio only. For security more than anything, Dean was sure, but he was grateful, nonetheless. "What can I do for you?"_

_"How soon can you be on a transport?"_

__Fuck._ "Um give me 30 to shower and change and then I can call a car..."_

_"No need, sir. A car was dispatched 15 minutes ago and should be arriving in two. We can get you hotel time after you visit the crime scene, but the shower will have to wait. It's not a problem on our end."_

_"Got it," Dean replied, sighing inwardly._

_"The driver has your itinerary. See you soon sir."_ The call disconnected suddenly leaving Dean along with his thoughts in his too-cluttered office in the too-early west coast morning. He paused long enough to rub his hand across his eyes, tugged it through his hair one more time before he was moving on autopilot. Shoved feet into shoes. Made the rounds of his office to grab his discarded tie, jacket, and belt. Reached into the filing cabinet nearest the door to grab his change of socks, underwear, and undershirt. Retrieved his gym bag, tossed out the dirty socks, threw the clean stuff inside. Bent down to grab his phone and tablet and briefcase. Ignored the tremor in his hands that almost made him drop everything. Crossed the room in three strides and had his hand on the doorknob before rationality kicked in. Reluctantly he returned to his desk, hit the hidden catch, unlocked the secret compartment and retrieved his pills. Dry swallowed two. Started for the door again. Paused to grab a sheet of hardcopy to scrawl a note for Deputy Director Crowley and stuck it to Crowley's chair on the way out. _Just in case his boss missed all the electronic notifications of Dean's whereabouts, which, knowing Crowley, he would._

Dean was downstairs and in the transport 15 seconds faster than detective Ford's estimate. 

~~~

Morton Jones was retired Secret Service. He was seventy-two, human male, born in Boston Massachusetts, but resident of the District for the last 50 years of his life more-or-less. Where Agent Marina Armakova's death had been public, staged, and clearly not self-inflicted, Mr. Jones' was private, messy, and was caused by a single gunshot to the temple. The weapon, an antique turn-of-the century pistol (a weapon registered to Jones), was within easy reach of his outstretched fingers.

_It looked like a suicide._

Which Dean muttered aloud.

"That's what we thought too," Detective Ford replied, dragging Dean from his musings.

Dean straightened to meet the detective's eye. If he'd hauled ass cross-country for nothing... It didn't matter that the transport from Seattle to the other Washington had only taken a little over an hour, Dean still hadn't had a shower or shave. His mouth tasted like stale coffee and his eyes were gritted like sand paper. Of course, Ford didn't look old enough to be in high school, let alone running an investigation (or co-running an investigation... the weasely Secret Service Agent was around somewhere, but so far was avoiding Dean). It was sheer anger that was making Dean's jaw tick. 

_No he didn't believe that._

"Until we found the note," Ford finished.

"Note?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"It's not a suicide note, sir," Ford explained, behavior suddenly contrite. He motioned for Dean to follow him, and produced a handwritten note--ink on hardcopy--that had been protectively bagged and tagged as evidence. "It's addressed to you."

 _Shit._ He'd recognize that handwriting anywhere. Another note. Another body. Another allegation about hiding in plain sight. Addressed to him (again). Same handwriting. Same fucking hardcopy.

_The more things change, the more they stay the same._

If this was anything like the last one, he really didn't want to read the note. _Suck it up, Singer._

_Agent Singer,_

_Dishonesty isn't limited to the very young, nor to your beloved Bureau. Nor is it only the province of the most distrusted..._

_Special Agent Morton Jones, retired, had a long and illustrious career "serving his country." But what service was it when he lied just by being every second of every day? Agent Jones was born before we had identified the others hiding out within the human race. He was born before hypersensors or hyperempaths had been given names, long before registration allowed us to track and sort our population, to keep the impostors from the true humans. Perhaps you think he just did not know he was a hypersensor hidden in human clothing. Perhaps that was why he served in the U.S. Army as a human in a human regiment at time service was restricted to humans. Perhaps he did not realize what he really was when he joined the Secret Service, an agency that banned sensors until two years before his retirement and remains purely segregated to this day. Perhaps you think he really did take his own life when he realized the lie he led._

_You would be wrong. "Agent" Jones's death is a message. Our message to you and a warning to all sensors who would try to hide like him._

_Dig deeper into his past. There us proof he knew what he was. There is proof he used what he was to hide himself and others who like him would violate the law, upset the natural order. Agent Jones was not a hero, but a traitor. Find the truth before it is too late, before the calamity that was set in motion with Mary Campbell's death comes to pass._

Dean read the letter. Read it again looking for clues in the handwriting, hardcopy selection, ink, anything that might give him a clue. He wasn't an expert in handwriting analysis, these days so few people were, but he thought the person writing the note might have been left handed. He didn't think it was that person's words though. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, he just did.

He was about to ask exactly where the letter had been found and why it had been bagged before he got there, when the implications struck.

 _Well, shit._ Had it been intentional? Had the perpetrators--and he was sure there was more than one person behind this--planned for other agencies to see this? Had they known the protocol? Was the threatened exposure to external forces intended to add pressure, another layer of threat to his investigation? _You already know it's an inside job, but inside where?_ Of course they did.

Dean allowed himself ten seconds of unbridled panic before taking a calming breath and another. Letting the fear seep out of his body and mind, centering himself the way his father had taught him so many years ago the specifics were lost in the fuzzy corners of his mind. When his breaths were even and his emotions contained behind a placid curtain of logic and self-assurance, he spoke. "Detective, where was this found?"

"On the vic's desk. Under his tablet."

Dean glanced at the desk in question. Looked again. "The tablet's been moved." It was a statement, not a question. The tablet was now on the nearby desk chair, tagged and clearly ready to be checked into evidence. The scene had been disturbed. 

"Well yes, but we took a scan of the room before anything was moved," the Defendant replied almost bouncing with eager energy.

And _fuck_! Why did they have to be so helpful? Come to think of it, he was pretty sure that was standard procedure, but it wasn't exactly going to help Dean at all. He held up his hand to cut off the detective's rambling. "How many people have seen this letter?"

"Well Agent Blake, me, the techs in evidence, I think maybe Blake's superiors--"

Dean winced. "How many?"

"Excuse me?"

"How many techs in evidence? Did any of them read the letter?"

"Four, maybe five--we had a team in here processing once we realized this wasn't a suicide," Detective Ford said again, suddenly serious. He had clearly picked up on Dean's concern. "I don't know if any of them read it."

Dean took a moment to assess the detective. Nothing twitched, nothing tingled. Just honesty and a hefty dose of caution. Dad called it _going with his gut_. Dean just knew there were times he had only survived because he listened to his instincts about a person despite outward signs to the contrary. Decided Ford was one of the good ones. Trustworthy and actually sensitive to Dean's position and needs as an investigator. "Can you get me a list of everyone who handled evidence, anyone who was on site, anyone who might have processed the recording?"

"Sure thing sir," Ford agreed with matching urgency. "I assume you'll be needing all the copies of that scan, and I should probably schedule everyone not onsite to come down to sign NDAs."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, let out a sigh. Then with genuine warmth, "Thank you.

"No problem. I'll check in with Agent Blake, try to smooth things over." Ford turned to leave, paused, suddenly hesitant. "Is there anything I can tell Agent Blake about your jurisdiction and why the Secret Service is about to be locked out of the loop."

 _Smart man._ Dean's smile grew a little wider. "Just say this falls squarely in my taskforce's jurisdiction and ties directly to an ongoing investigation in a sensitive case." 

"Task force?" Detective Ford asked.

"It will make more sense next Tuesday after the details are announced," Dean said cringing inwardly. Oh yeah a case being directed to a mysterious taskforce based on a note from the perp before the group's existence was public knowledge wasn't suspicious at all. "Tell the good Agent to expect a call from Deputy Director Crowley."

"Got it."

"Hey before you go, is there any place I can get some privacy for a secure call?" Dean asked, gesturing with his phone. 

"Yeah, we set up a static field in the bathroom."

"Thanks," Dean acknowledged and set off in the direction Ford had pointed, slipped into the modest facilities, latched the door behind him and breathed. A few moments inspection revealed a better-than-expected jamming field. With the boost from his own phone's built-in security features, it should be enough to keep prying ears--even a sensor's ears--from eavesdropping. He took a few more seconds to utter a silent prayer, dialed his phone into the Bureau's secure frequency, and connected the call.

"Director Crowley...”

~~~

Dean had hardly been on the ground and back in Seattle for 24 hours when news of the third murder reached him.

The murder itself was splashy. A spectacle. A judicial extern—some poor kid who’d just finished a year of law school—was shot by a sniper’s bullet in broad daylight on the steps of the central courthouse in Geneva. 

Sure the Bureau was global, had been since fallout over the discovery of hyperhumans— _mutants_ —had led to formalization of global government. But the old territorial boundaries of nations still reared their heads in annoying ways—different customs, different interpretations of protocol. _Turf wars._

Of course when the murder hit the news, Dean hadn’t known it had anything to do with _him_. Anything to do with the other cases… Then the note showed up. 

Woodpulp hardcopy. In his office. As if it had miraculously materialized there.

_Shona Petersen’s death wasn’t a random act of violence. Ms. Peterson was an unregistered empath. Her life posed a threat to justice everywhere. The taint could not be allowed to spread. Her life could not be allowed to continue.  
The HT list is real. We have it. And we will eliminate every person on it. We will expose the cancer that plagues this universe. We will undo the damage Mary Campbell visited upon this world. We will set right the natural order._

_Do you know who’s on the list, Agent Singer? You’ll be surprised. It’s people you know. People you trust. The question is can we trust you? Will you do your job? Will you faithfully execute the requirements of your office? Will you follow the evidence and enforce the law—all the laws, no matter how much you may personally despise them?_

_We know your secrets. We know their secrets. And we will expose them, one-by-one, until we bring the mutant menace to its knees._

Dean had fallen into his chair. Hands shaking. Head aching. He’d already hit the hidden catch, unlocked the drawer, and downed three pills before he was aware of what was happening.

_Shit._

So that horrible public spectacle was connected after all? 

He’d already sent Agents Talbot and Novak back to Washington, DC, to continue the investigation of the second murder.

With the task force not yet assembled, the only people free were Dean, his boss, Deputy Director Everett Crowley, and the probie—well he wasn’t so probationary any more, but the affectionate term still fit—Kevin Tran. Kevin was an empath and the son of Dean’s most trusted confidential informant. The thought of sending Kevin out into the field alone to investigate murders committed by someone who seemed committed to executing mutants. No. He couldn’t do that. And he couldn’t leave the office unmanned (and no, Crowley didn’t count). He had no choice but to step up the game plan, call in the rest of the team a little early. The rest of his taskforce, two sensor agents, Charlie Bradbury and Samuel Campbell, Mary Campbell’s _son_ himself, were supposed to start on the first of the year.

But there was no way they could wait that long. So, grudgingly, Dean called the direct line for FBI Director Naomi Browning. 

Browning was sly and sneaky, more _spy_ than cop, Dean had always thought, and he always seemed to get a headache when he was around her, like his brain was prickling with some kind of distaste. But she was the Director, and ultimately everyone answered to her. She’d agreed to the taskforce—a minor miracle in and of itself—and she was the only person who could transfer his agents early. So he sucked it up and endured a twenty-minute vidcall in which he explained as much of the case as he dared. (It didn’t register _why_ he felt so cagey, but it _was_ an open investigation, and secure line or not, messages could always be interrupted by the determined. 

“So let me get this straight,” Director Browning asked. “You’ve been pulled into a string of murders, serial killings, you think, and the perpetrator or perpetrators claim to have an actual HT list and claims to be using that list to assassinate individuals in or formerly in public service who are suspected to be secret nonhumans?”

“Sensors and empaths, mutants, yes,” he corrected gently.

“And they came to you? They addressed messages to _you_?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there any merit to their accusations? Have they discovered a security risk?” She demanded.

“Well ma’am, the matter is currently an open investigation and it would be contrary to policy for me to speculate or divulge sensitive information absent a direct order or an exigent circumstance, and given that we are currently having this call from across the continent rather than face-to-face, I certainly hope you are not planning to give me a direct order. But to be frank, whether the HT list is real or the allegations are real, the perpetrator or perpetrators appear to have high-level access to confidential personnel files, even top secret secure compartmentalized information, and they are using this information to hunt public servants and to make hardcopy notes materialize on my desk. I need to get to the bottom of this, and we need to keep this under wraps. The nature of the murders, the allegations, are too sensitive—

“How do you expect to keep it ‘under wraps,’ when law students are being sniped on the steps of the courthouse?” she demanded.

“—by controlling the flow of information and ensuring that the press, the public, only know about the murder and the investigation and not the interrelationship of the various crimes, not the story behind the story,” he explained.

“That isn’t a tenable option in the long term.”

“This situation isn’t survivable in the long term. Regardless of the veracity of the perpetrator’s allegations if this goes on too long, if this is exposed to the public, people will react. And it isn’t going to be pretty.”

“And that’s why you’re asking for the two… sensors early? Director Browning asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

She seemed to ponder this for a few moments. With every second that ticked by, Dean’s heart thudded faster. 

“Okay,” she answered at last.

“Okay?” he asked.

“I will give them to you, but on one condition. You allow me to nominate an agent to the taskforce. I have someone in mind. She’s quite skilled and very interested in your… special branch of crime solving. She’s also a stickler for detail.”

Dean held his breath. Waited. In… out… when he finally felt like he could focus. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Agent Milton will be on her way to you momentarily. I expect you to get this situation under wraps, Singer, before I have press on my lawn asking if there are really emos hiding in the CIA.”

“Yes ma’am.”

At the time, he didn’t even realize he hadn’t mentioned the connection to Mary Campbell… or the fact that he’d just gotten permission to bring in her _son_ to solve a mystery connected to her murder. 

Then again, he also didn’t notice how spot-on the Director’s examples were. 


	3. Interlude 1

**Interlude 1**

_November 3, 2068_

TV Announcer: The investigation continues into the shocking murder of renowned researcher and civil rights advocate Mary Campbell. Dr. Campbell is best known for her research into the development of hypersensory and hyperempathic abilities and her advocacy for civil and human rights for both hypersensors and hyperempaths. A hypersensor herself, she was instrumental in drafting and ensuring the passage of the Campbell-Shurley Accords three years ago, and at the time of her death last week, she was working tirelessly towards the ratification of the Accords by the last five UN member holdouts.

The coincidence of Dr. Campbell’s murder with the third anniversary of the UN General Assembly's adoption of the Accords has prompted many pundits to suggest Dr. Campbell’s murder was orchestrated by the government of or activist groups within one or more of the five holdout nations. Others have pointed the finger at elements within the hyperempathic community as being the most likely culprits. Recently retired FBI director James Azazel was quoted as saying, "It's the bloody emos. It's in their nature. They can't be trusted and they will stop at nothing to gain absolute control over humanity. They duped and mind-controlled Dr. Campbell for years and when their trickery would no longer work against her abilities, they killed her." 

While Director Azazel's words seem harsh and are deeply offensive to some, many others point out that in recent months Dr. Campbell had struck up an unusual friendship with notorious hyperempathic activist John Winchester. Mr. Winchester is wanted on over 75 felony charges in connection with acts of terrorism in the US, Hong Kong, Europe, and Australia. Some of Dr. Campbell's friends defended the relationship as a logical step in her diplomatic efforts to promote understanding, acceptance, and equality within all branches of humanity. Others believe the relationship may be directly responsible for her murder and are calling for the immediate apprehension or execution of Mr. Winchester. 

Investigators assigned to this shocking, high-profile case have refused to comment although a source close to the investigation assured the special taskforce was exploring all angles. Mr. Winchester remains at large. 

Meanwhile, violent protests stretched into their seventh day as clashes between human, hyperempathic, and hypersensor activists and police spread to Boston, Copenhagen, and Calcutta.

 

Correspondent 1: The scene on the national Mall was one of utter chaos unseen and unrivaled even by the infamous antiwar protests of the 1960s and 2000s.

Hypersensor Protestor: (Chanting) Justice for Mary. Justice for all! Justice for Mary!

Correspondent 1: The US Army National Guard debuted the Army's new EPOS-2 tanks three months ahead of schedule while fighter jets flew over the White House South Lawn and Marine Helicopters flew overhead.

Human Protester 1: This is exactly what we've been saying for years. Sensor and Empath freaks want to take over the world. They're trying to destroy our country, the fabric of society. Yet you people listened to the sensor and look where it got you. Y'all listened to Mary Winchester and gave the empaths rights and now you're stuck with it. And what did the empaths go and do? They killed that sensor b---- [bleep]. But the hand that fed them.

Correspondent 1: While emotions are running high and tensions mount worldwide, calls for peace are coming from all sides.

Human Protester 2 [holding "WWMCD?" Sign"]: It shocks me. I mean it's just a shock. She was a scientist and a mother and a diplomat. She worked for peace. For _all_ of us. Her death was senseless enough, but now this? Blaming empaths? Calls for war? I don't think it’s what Dr. Campbell would want.

Hyperempathic Protester 1: We didn't have anything to do with Mary's death. We didn't want her dead. We don't want anything but a chance, a chance to live the same life you have. To fit in. Mary was trying to give us that... Why would anyone hurt her?

Commentator 1: But despite calls for peace and understanding, tensions continue to escalate. Violence erupted on three separate occasions in Washington today. Early reports suggest there are between 5 and 25 dead and perhaps as many as 300 inured. There is no word on the identities or classification of the casualties. 

Meanwhile in New York City, where martial law was declared three days ago, hyperempthic residents have been detained for their own safety. The city is currently operating two processing centers and is rumored to have a third ready to open tomorrow.

NY City Mayor Smith: We understand these times are trying for everyone and the Nation is in mourning. We ask that New Yorkers please comply with instructions from police and the National Guard. Hyperempaths, please, turn yourselves in. We are trying to protect you from further violence and aid in the orderly investigation of this senseless crime. We have officers going door to door, reaching out to people. If you're hiding, come out of hiding. If you're concealing someone else, for your own safety and theirs, please come forward. 

Commentator 1: But criticisms abound. Sources close to Charles Shurley, the human scholar, longtime friend of Dr. Campbell's and co-author of the Campbell-Shurley Accords, say Dr. Shurley has likened the New York processing centers to concentration or internment camps. Miles Hogue interviewed Dr. Shurley earlier today.

Commentator 2 [Hogue]: What would you like the public to know?

Shurley: Please. Stop the violence. Stop fighting. Stop turning on each other. Stop blaming each other based on your classification. Mary wouldn't-- This is the last thing Dr. Campbell would want. Whoever killed her, I have to imagine they wanted to derail her work. And giving in, passing blame, attacking your fellow people, that's playing right into their hands. That's letting them win.

Commentator 2: What do you think of the theories that known hyperempathic terrorist John Winchester may have been behind Dr. Campbell's murder?

Shurley: I am going to leave the investigation in the capable hands of the task force assembled to investigate her murder.

Commentator 2: Don't you think--

Shurley [interrupting]: What I think doesn't matter. Mr. Winchester is a suspected terrorist. He's never been tried in a court of law. I don't know him personally, but based on my conversations with Mary, their interactions were never hostile. I think we would all be better served by not jumping to conclusions.

Commentator 2: Mr. Winchester hasn't turned himself in. Does that suggest to you that he is admitting guilt?

Shurley: No comment.

Commentator 2: Does Dr. Campbell's death change your opinion about empath rights? About humanity sharing power with hypersensors and hyperempaths.

Shurley [agitated]: No comment.

Commentator 2 [incredulous]: A woman who was supposed to be your friend was murdered and all you have to say is no comment?

Shurley: I'm sorry. I'm done. Can you please leave?

Commentator 2: Mr. Shurley this is important--

Shurley [shouting]: Get out! Turn that off. [Baby crying] And stay the hell away from me and from Mary's son.

Commentator 1: Thank you, Miles for that incredible interview.

Commentator 2: You're welcome. It was--well, quite volatile as you may have gathered from the recording. It serves as a reminder to us all of how high emotions are running and how just sensitive the issues surrounding this senseless tragedy are.

Commentator 1: I understand the baby heard on camera was actually Dr. Campbell’s young son, Samuel Campbell. Is there any indication what will happen to the boy?

Commentator 2: Yes that was Dr. Campbell’s son. Dr. Campbell named Dr. Shurley as the child's guardian, which is why the child was present earlier today. Of course Dr. Shurley is human so there it is not clear if a judge will uphold that nomination in the long term, or place the child with a hypersensor guardian or guardians, who would arguably be far more appropriate. Now Dr. Campbell’s parents are both dead, but there are several living members of her extended family that a judge might consider for guardianship.

Commentator 1: What about the child's father?

Commentator 2: Dr. Campbell was a very insular and private individual. She never revealed the identity of her children's fathers although many believe Dr. Shurley may be young Samuel's biological father. Of course that's just a rumor at this point and if true it might actually hurt Dr. Shurley's chances of retaining custody as mixed-classification marital unions, even between humans and hypersensors are strictly illegal and in New York, where any custody disputes will be heard, evidence of cross-classification sexual or romantic liaisons are considered a sign of immorality detrimental to the best interests of the child.


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Settling In**

While Sam and Charlie fit into the new group almost seamlessly, Anna was a different story.

"I can't believe it. You actually have a fucking emo as your CI!" Anna scoffed. 

Cas glared at her. She'd said it loud enough that it wasn't really an under-her-breath comment. 

"What?" she asked, unconcerned as she hopped up on the edge of Cas' desk swinging her legs. "I've heard Singer's reputation, and clearly he lives up to it," she gestured at the other side of the room, "but he's not so much of a freak-lover that he's gonna have a problem with me calling it as it is."

On the other side of the room, Kevin was folding in on himself. Even if he hadn't _heard_ Anna, he'd definitely _felt_ what she'd said. She probably _knew_ that, and that kind of casual cruelty pissed Cas off to no end. He'd been thinking maybe Anna had changed. Maybe all the time and exposure to the real world had cured her of some of her more... objectionable qualities, or at least tempered them. But it was clear now; she was still the same hateful bigoted bitch she'd been in the academy.

He was about to comment on that, but he had one eye trained on Kevin, who was now talking to Dean, and looking like he was about to bolt.

Dean said something Cas couldn't hear and Kevin straightened, visibly calming. Worse, Dean was headed there way... and suddenly Cas was confident he didn't have to _say_ anything.

"He's _not_ my CI," Dean said.

Anna didn't get it. She actually smiled, "see I knew you couldn't be--"

But Kevin cut her off, "My _mom_ was Agent Singer's CI," he said, pride positively radiating.

"Kevin's our probie, he graduated from the academy a little over a year ago with top marks," Dean explained, resting his hand reassuringly on Kevin's shoulder and nodding at Cas in thanks. “And we were lucky enough to snatch it right up.”

Even though Cas hadn't actually said much, Dean knew he'd had their backs. 

"Wh--" Anna's lips moved, but she never quite got the word out. 

"And while I understand a certain amount of probie hazing is still gonna happen, understand that right now, you're lower on the totem pole than _Agent _Tran."__

__Her mouth closed with an audible clack of teeth. Anna was nodding in understanding, but Cas could tell Dean's words hadn't sunk in._ _

__Meanwhile, Dean took two steps forward and his entire demeanor changed. This was the legendary "Agent Singer," the badass boss who inspired fear in the hearts of humans and mutants alike, the man who was impervious to suggestion and so attentive even sensors couldn't slip tricks past him. And he brooked absolutely no argument._ _

__"And Agent Milton, if I _ever_ hear you use that language again--to a coworker, a civilian, a perp, your dog, a tree, I don't care--you will be out of here faster than you can say your name. Are we clear?"_ _

__"Yeah."_ _

__Cas winced._ _

__"I said, Are. We. Clear. Agent Milton?"_ _

__"Crystal," she answered, expression sour eyes calculating._ _

__Dean didn't look particularly impressed, but he nodded, patted Kevin's shoulder again, and headed back across the bullpen._ _

__"Can you be--" Anna started._ _

__"He's still listening. And he is _not_ kidding. Say anything stupid, and he'll get you cashiered from the Bureau without a second thought."_ _

__"I can't believe you're taking his side," Anna muttered, scowling at Cas._ _

__"I was never on _your_ side. This is _my_ team. My town. My area of expertise. Stop fucking it up," Cas said, speaking his mind. He walked away without another thought. Who cared if Anna was still polluting his desk. He could find something else to do. He _couldn't_ stand being around her for a moment longer._ _

____

~~~

Still Anna didn't seem to be deterred. She kept poking and needling at everything and everyone. Doing more to sow discord than investigate the case. Cas, long-time loyal member of Singer's team talked to his boss about it, but Singer didn't seem particularly concerned. At least not for the reasons Cas was concerned.

"I don't get it," Anna muttered.

Cas didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could hear the _slouch_ in her posture from the sullenness in her voice. It wasn't a statement or a question or even a declaration. It was a pout.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Agent Talbot's eye roll as she walked by, reference book--and it was actually a book, paper, binding, hard cover, the whole nine yards--turning pages in otherwise rapt concentration.

"I don't fucking get it," Anna repeated a little louder, her voice almost a hiss.

Damn it! There was no avoiding this one. If he kept his mouth shut, she was just going to keep sighing and pouting, and if no one paid attention, she'd begin pontificating and then they were really in trouble. They'd be getting a up-close and personal look at just how much trouble, hatred, and vitriol Anna could spew before the Deputy Director Crowley stepped in and that would just bring in a whole round of reaming for everyone. Anna had no clue alright, but it was about how pissed Crowley would be if he got pulled into a dreaded "HR spat" that revolved around classification-based prejudices.

So, Cas bit the bullet. "Okay, what don't you get?"

Anna leaned back in her chair tipping the seat to an angle that would cause chairs made out of a lesser material to squeak and groan in protest. "Singer and his fucking pet. What's he doing going into the field and taking the freak with him and leaving us here?"

"I believe the term you're looking for is 'probie,' or perhaps the more formal 'probationary officer,'" Bella supplied. “Although, technically, Tran isn’t probationary anymore. Hasn’t been in, what, nine months?”

Anna and Cas ignored her, but for different reasons. Anna seemed impervious to any distraction, and Cas…

Well, Cas was trying to figure out _why_ Anna was so… fixated. She’d been stubborn when he knew her before, but this? This was beyond stubborn. This was fixated to the point of stupidity… Unless she had an ulterior motive. Unless _something_ else was going on.

"Are you upset that Singer is in the field? That the probie goes into the field and you're stuck here? Or that Singer didn't make you his partner?" Cas asked, curious how Anna would respond.

"How about all of the above?"

~~~

Of course, little did Cas know, but Dean's reasons for not focusing on Anna had more to do with his own health and the increasingly threatening messages that were coming with each new body. The cases still appeared unconnected to the outside world, but inside... Dean was facing down the latest note that threatened to expose his _father_. Legendary (retired) Bobby Singer... And if Dad really _was_ an empath, what did that say for Dean? Especially when the headaches got worse and the tremors were harder and harder to hide. Ayers-Gamma Epilepsy was supposed to be the sole realm of empaths, or at least that had been the original theory, until it showed up in a few sensors here and there and then on one occasion prior to Dean's diagnosis as a teenager, a human. But was that all a convenient lie?

And how the hell was it connected to Mary Winchester? Since every other victim and target seemed to have a tie to her--from the extreme of "grandmothers were grade school classmates" to "worked with her on UN subcommittee," absolutely every person who had died or been given as the name of a future hit, was connected to Agent Campbell's mother or her thirty-year-old murder mystery.

Dean looked up at the knock on his door. He smiled when he saw who was there, even while his stomach did an awful flutter lurch. _Three guesses why Kevin had come to see him and the first two don't count._ "Kevin, what can I do for you?" Dean asked, careful to keep his voice congenial, throwing in a hint of warning--it would sound like irritated boss to anyone who didn't _get_ his relationship with Kevin (to the initiated it would sound exactly like the warning it was).

Kevin had the decency to blush even as he leaned against the door jamb, left hand casually braced over his head, right hand fiddling with the latch plate. His hand was tucked close to his body, blocked from everyone's view but Dean's, convenient for hand signals if he needed them. And sure enough, Kevin's fingers were already fluttering in the stutter-step for danger.

_Bobby Singer--_ Dad _\--had taught Dean that code. Kevin had already known the code when Dean met him, learned it from him. Dean never asked where she'd learned it, but he wasn't stupid. He knew Linda's rap sheet like he knew his own training scores. FBI legend that he was, no one was going to question why Deputy Director Singer knew the same damn codes used by the fucking empath underground, why he knew the ERF's combat hand signs, or why he'd taught them to his kid._

"Dean," Kevin said, his voice soft, plaintive, quiet enough that if Campbell and Bradbury weren't paying close attention they probably missed it. 

(Good on that too, neither he nor Kevin wanted anyone guessing why a junior agent would call his SAIC by his first name. Speculation would invite prying. Prying would end with Kevin dead and Dean finding out the answer to what the UN _really_ did to humans who transgressed the wrong rules.)

While Dean ran through his silent half-panic, Kevin's eyes flicked to the ceiling, then zeroed in on Dean, boring into him.

Grudgingly, Dean reached over to his right, fingers brushing against the hidden switch located just too deep under the desk for his knee to accidentally bump. Pushed the switch, counted to three, waited until he was certain he could hear the air circulation fans spinning up, and let out a long breath. "Yeah?" he asked once the jamming was active.

Kevin took three strides into the room, pulling the door partially closed behind him, not enough to make any spies curious about their apparent private conversation, but enough to dissuade the other from investigating.

"You know it's common for humans to have dreams they don't remember... But," Kevin bit his lip. "Normal people don't wake up from full immersive nightmares without a clue." It cost him to say that. 

Dean could see the cost, the weight of truth spoken bowing Kevin's shoulders down, slouch not really a slouch--the way his fingers turned white where they held onto the door jamb for dear life. The almost-flinch. The way Kevin averted his eyes... Dean knew Kevin didn't really fear him, but there was only so much practical knowledge could do in the face of a lifetime of conditioning, and Kevin had just spoke blasphemy to his human superior. Time and a place he would have been executed for that.

_Not in this world. Not in this timeline. Not with how far they'd all come, what they'd built on Mary Campbell's sacrifice._

Didn't stop the truth from landing like a punch to the gut, though. _Didn't mean Dean would take the easy way._. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the short-cropped strands, and on down his face in frustration, letting out an audible sigh as all the fears he couldn't hold onto--couldn't _conceal_ any longer--made their escape. For a moment he said nothing, just stared at the grey smoked glass of his desk from between the pink-tinged filter of his loosely clasped fingers. Stopped. Breathed. Ground the heels of his hands into his eyes in frustration. (Didn't make it any better.) When he finally spoke, he couldn't meet Kevin's eye any more than Kevin could meet his. "You know I've always tested clean. No trace of forced memory suppression, mood alteration, not a hint of any memory replacements." He'd first undergone a deep scan before he entered the academy. Got another scan before graduation and every six months after that for going on fifteen years. He'd had the extra scans when required--evidence of assault by a hyperempath suspect, deep cover missions, prolonged exposure to 'empaths of unsavory character' (twice a month the after someone got wind of who, _what_ , his CI was). They'd all come up clean. Every damn one. The closest he'd ever come to positive evidence of empath influence was a slightly tweaked mood, a little more anger and depression than were actually his own, and under the circumstances of that clusterfuck, he'd gotten off easy. It was a miracle he wasn't screwed six ways from Sunday like everyone else on that op had been. 

_That in and of itself had been a problem, a cause for concern. Why wasn't he as fucked as the rest of them had been?_

"You know, scans don't show everything," Kevin said at last. _I've told you a million times all the ways common knowledge is wrong. All the things the government is missing._

"Kevin..." Dean started, a warning. His eyes snapped up and he sighed again.

Guilt was plain on Kevin's face, shadowed by the unspoken knowledge he wasn't done, hadn't yet said his piece, felt guilty as hell, but he wouldn't be able to walk away until he was done (until all was said).

"I've been getting the dreams since I was 14. Never remembered any of them. Nothing's changed. They always come out when I'm... stressed." The words sat slick and twisted on Dean's lips, left a bad taste in his mouth as he spoke them. He wasn't an idiot. He was too smart, had trained too hard and too long, to not see the signs, the warning klaxons for what they were.

"Do you think that maybe your dad could have... taken you to someone? If you consent, it doesn't show up the same way..." Kevin meant doesn't show up at all, not the way the FBI trains sensors to look, but that was one of those secrets they couldn't risk speaking here, not even with the jammer on, not if they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt they were the only two beings in the building. That was one of the secrets that could--would--damn them. "We both know your dad, what he believes... if something bad enough..."

Dean nodded, then shook his head. He had no doubt Dad would have hauled him off to an empath _healer_ if the situation called for it. He had no doubts the Great Bobby Singer had used that trick and more at some point in his life, no doubt he had the resources to pull it off. And Dean knew himself well enough, was honest enough with himself to know he would have said yes. Because anything that could have driven Dad to make that kind of call would have been worth the risk (would have been too much of a risk not to). "It's just a quirk of being me," Dean said, still shaking his head. "I probably had the dreams before that... I probably could remember if I tried..." he shrugged, "but somehow I don't think I'd like what I find." When he looked up at Kevin he knew his expression was imploring. Every ounce of fear and shock and slow-dawning realization, denial and certainty, desperation, was there for him to see. 

Kevin took his words for what they really meant (fuck all if I have a clue), his gaze narrowing slightly, giving him away. He was gleaning thoughts from Dean's mind, picking up some of the specifics of the multitude of things-left-unsaid. 

On anyone else, Dean would have got his hackles up at that expression, would have objected, would have been damn fucking scared at what secret-private-classified thoughts might be found there. But this was Kevin, and Kevin could read Dean's mind with the casualness and intimacy usually reserved for immediate family members, because Kevin was in every way that mattered the little brother Dean had never had. "John Winchester was arrested when you were 14."

Dean stared at him for a few moments unblinking before he slowly nodded. "Yeah." 

"I know he's your dad's second cousin. I know you've never met him..." Kevin murmured.

"You think I witnessed something," Dean offered. But they both knew it was--had to be--a lot more than that. Dean knew it like he knew the pit in his gut that had always been there for as long as his mind would let himself remember, the same pit that had been growing darker, deeper, more insistent ever since a body had showed up on his team's (his) doorstep with a note pinned to it. He could see the certain in Kevin's eyes reflected back at him. Shared truth. Shared fear. 

The moment was broken when a residual headache flashed through Dean's temple, causing him to wince, reflexively moving his hands to massage the pain away.

"I'll support you know matter what you decide, you know that. Your secrets are mine," Kevin said insistently ignoring the frown Dean knew had to be spreading across his features. 

"Kevin, I don't--" he started to protest, knowing the weight and unwavering absoluteness carried behind the proclamation.

"You need to watch your back," Kevin said instead, leaning into the room. He nodded towards the locked drawer beneath Dean's questing fingers.

A trickle of fear ran up his spine and Dean reached farther under the desk for the hidden catch. Watched with bated breath as the drawer's secret side compartment slid out with a muted _snick_. His chest heaved as relief flooded his body with adrenaline. _The pills were still there._ He didn't know what he would have done if the drawer had been empty. _It wasn't important. It didn't mean anything..._

" _That's_ not safe," Kevin said. 

Dean knew he was talking about more than the hiding place.

"Milton's been snooping."

Dean ignored the tickle in the back of his throat. It was psychosomatic. The throbbing in his right temple was too. It was nothing. Nothing. He was fine. And even if he wasn't the pills were right there...

Giving himself a mental shake Dean ignored the sensation, turned his attention back to Kevin. "How do you know?"

"She tripped a couple of Novak's safeties."

Dean raised an eyebrow. 

"Says he's got vid to prove it’s her and _no_ I didn't ask him how he got it and I don't want to know." Kevin shook a finger at Dean. "You're not gonna ask either. There's no good that comes of you knowing."

To say the Bureau frowned on agents taking steps to surveil each other (or protect themselves from the surveillance of others) would be an understatement similar in magnitude to suggesting the ocean was not completely dry (or Titan wasn't as balmy as, say Miami).

Well great. Was this just the side-effect of Naomi Browning’s distrust of mutants? Send her favorite agent to tear the team apart, or report back on them, let Browning know if anything was amiss? Or was it more sinister? And why would Browning want to screw with the investigation? Especially when it was so sensitive?


	5. Chapter 3

"Well there's one place we haven't looked," Charlie said resting her hands against the edge of Sam's desk. He'd say the action looked prim, only he couldn't imagine Charlie ever acting _prim_.

Hesitant then. Cautious. Like she was bracing herself for a bad reaction.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked swallowing reflexively.

Charlie tapped a file contemplatively before pulling it out of the stack and opening it so Sam could read its contents.

"Dr. Charles Shurley. Eyewitness to your mother's murder and the one name who pops up in everyone's files."

"You want to go talk to my dad?" Sam stammered. Of all the things that could make Charlie get that look, this certainly wasn't one Sam had imagined.

"Actually, I've always wondered, is he your biological dad? Are you actually half-human?" Charlie asked, demeanor flipping in an instant. Head cocked to one side, eyes calculating, she was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet regarding Sam like she might a particularly fascinating video or VR sim. 

"I—I really have no idea and that's entirely beside the point. Why do you want to talk to my dad?" If he were an empath he would be projecting the notion that she'd better not think his dad was a suspect. Because if that was it... only, no. He swore he could almost feel how paranoid she was about that idea the insistence that Dr. Shurley wasn't a suspect, the fear that was exactly the conclusion Sam would draw. Shaking himself physically and mentally, Sam cleared his mind, pushing the hostile, suspicious emotions away without a second thought.

"Everyone who touched this case, and I do mean everyone, believed Dr. Shurley knew more than he was saying. A _lot_ more."

"Did they think he was a suspect?" Sam asked, swallowing hard.

"No, and that's actually what's so fascinating and what makes me really want to interview him. There was no possible way he could have physically killed Mary Campbell. He was standing by her side, slightly in front of her with his back to her, about six inches between them. She was shot by a sniper from at least 1000 yards away. There was only one shot. The bullet was a hollow point filled with a nerve agent, but in too thin a dilution to kill anyone other than a phys—that's why they knew your mom was the target and not Shurley. It wasn't a miss, and the lack of a second shot suggests she was their only target. Campbell and Shurley were isolated enough that a sniper with the skill to make the shot that killed Campbell could have taken a few dozen shots at Shurley in the time it took help to arrive. A few people, other humans who disapproved of Shurley's attitudes on hypers, mostly, suggested he could have arranged the hit, delayed the authorities, but Director Azazel insisted Shurley had nothing to do with it. He was convinced Shurley was innocent, and so was everyone else who would have seriously made a case about it. Besides, Shurley offered to be screened by the entire Sensor Council and even agreed to let three different empaths scan him. Everyone was convinced he was telling the truth about that, including the judge who approved his guardianship of you and your eventual adoption. Considering the judge assigned to the case was a vocal opponent of your mom, hypers, crossclass relationships and just about everything else _and_ she was on military grade empathic repellants at the time, they all let the issue drop."

"So what is it my dad's supposed to know?" he asked, taking the file from Charlie's hands and flipping through it.

"Officially, no one knows and no one agrees," Charlie started and then paused.

The pause drew Sam out of his speed reading and made him look up. Charlie looked scared. She was surreptitiously glancing around to make sure no one was in obvious ear shot. 

When she spoke again it was at a volume that Sam could only hear because he was a powerful and well-trained sensor standing just inches away. "Honestly, he knows something about motive. Something maybe no one else alive knows about the real reason she was killed. The real motivation. Something that could lead to the killers." Her lips barely moved. 

"Something that could tell us why this is happening now. What's really going on," Sam whispered back.


	6. Interlude 2

**Interlude 2: 2098**

Dean sat in the early-morning darkness struggling to shake off the lingering effects of the dream. Sweat poured down his back and temples plastering his shirt and boxers to his still-shaking body, right leg jittering with pent up stress tapping out a rhythm against the bed frame.

He tugged his hands through his hair and rested his elbows on his knees. The damn dreams always came out of nowhere, and they always felt so _real_. But they never made any sense.

He'd been dreaming of a brother, his mother, an old-style car on the roads in the middle of nowhere... A _bunker_ , someplace hidden and unknown (someplace a federal agent would never go), Bobby's salvage yard in South Dakota (and why would he think of _dad_ as Bobby. The dreams never felt like dreams, but they never felt like real life either.


	7. Chapter 4

"Sam! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Chuck Shurley cheered, sweeping Sam into a hug and slapping him on the back.

Charlie stared in shock from the other side of the doorway as Chuck dragged Sam inside.

"Oh you know, just passing through," Sam lied. He knew the falsehood was as obvious to Charlie's senses as it was to his own, but she was giving him a side eye, like she wasn't sure if _Chuck_ knew.

But before Sam could say anything, Chuck had thrown the door all the way open and was saying, "And who is this lovely individual?" He'd already ushered them both inside and closed the door by the time he finished the question.

Charlie's eyes were flicking around the giant entryway, in obvious shock and awe.

Sam knew the place looked like a cross between a palace and a bunker with marble pillars and a sweeping staircase alongside high tech surveillance and ballistic armored concrete. It was enough to make anyone's eyes bug out. And it could give totally the wrong impression. Chuck and Sam were NOT snobs. They both resented conspicuous consumption and would be happier calling Sam's childhood home _home_ or the house Mary had owned in Kansas or her apartment in New York.

But for safety and security they'd had to make concessions. And the palatial fortress was one of them.

Sam watched as Charlie's eyes darted from the entryway to the bunker-like safe room to the right to the inviting-but-deceptive sitting room with its reinforced triple-paned windows to Chuck's cane to the wheelchair in the corner and the elevator tucked away next to the stairs. He could tell before she said anything that she wasn't going to be an insensitive ass, or stick her foot in her mouth. She _got_ it. Sam could feel it.

"Chuck, this is Charlie Bradbury," Sam started.

"I'm his partner," Charlie finished, extending her hand for Chuck to shake.

Chuck grabbed Charlie's hand in his free hand and pumped it up and down. "No more Ruby, eh, I always thought there was something odd about her," he added under his breath.

"Which one?" Sam countered with a half-laugh.

"Both, either," Chuck teased. "You gotta admit they had some... _issues_?"

"You could say that," Charlie muttered under her breath as Sam couldn't help but all out laugh.

"Yeah, I guess there reputation did make it around the office."

"Try the entire Bureau and every other law enforcement and intelligence agency in the 'Western' world," Charlie continued. "This one time I was talking to my friend Claudia at the NSA, she heard this story about Ruby 2.0--I mean Ruby Sherridan--"

"The one with the psychotic meth dealer and the hidden trap door in the church?" Sam wagered.

"Yeah, actually," Charlie said, deflating a little.

"You know, I've heard that one," Chuck admitted as he waved them into the sitting room. "So, he said as he eased into a recliner next to the wheelchair. "They're letting to sensorpartner up?"

Chuck seemed to realize how those words sounded a split-second after they left his mouth and he and Sam shared a panicked look. "He didn't mean it that way," Sam stammered eyes wide as he took in Charlie's evident shock.

"No, I--I get what he means. Dr. Shurley's opinions are legendary and he's thrilled that he gets to see something he's been fighting for... for decades--two hyper-humans actually being treated as equals, not relegated to special teams or taskforces. Yeah, we're on a regular service task force and we're partnered with each other. Our probie's even an empath--and Singer, our SAIC, he even has another empath as a CI."

"Exactly," Chuck said, a strange smile flitting across his face. "You really are perceptive."

"Thank you," Charlie said blushing.

"It's something I never expected to see in my lifetime, to be honest. Something I always wanted though. Don't get me wrong, there's a long way to go, but, wow. I'm impressed."

"So, if you got it, what's with the shocked face? If you understood what Chuck meant..."

"I--I was surprised he knew what I am," Charlie admitted, as she flopped down on the bench. "I mean you're not an empath."

"Ah, well, that secret, I'm afraid I can't share," Chuck said sounding generally sad. "So, now that we've waited sufficient time chatting about meaningless nonsense and pleasantries to please whatever asshole three-letter agency has gotten past the perimeter security this time," Chuck reached over and pressed a panel inlaid in the frame of the wheelchair. "Now that's out of the way, what are you really here for?"

"Actually," Sam began, "We're here to ask about the assassination of Mary Campbell," Sam said.

"Oy, we're going to need a drink for this," Chuck interrupted, hauling himself to his feet. "Excuse me."

Minutes later, when they were once again ensconced in their chairs, Sam sitting next to Charlie on the couch, cups of coffee, doctored to varying degrees in hand, Chuck spoke again. "So, am I correct in assuming you're here in an official capacity?"

Sam and Charlie exchanged glances. After Sam gave her a nod of permission, Charlie began, "Actually, we're here in whatever capacity will get us the answers we need."

Chuck glanced at Sam, obviously confused.

"How much have you heard about the HT list?" Sam asked.

Chuck blinked long and slow, taking a deep sip of his coffee. "I know the basic idea--it's a list with all the identifies of all the hyper-humans currently or formerly in positions of trust--government, intelligence, law enforcement, military officers, any position that would typically be off-limits to empaths or sensors highly restricted. The idea is these individuals slipped through the cracks or got around the standard investigatory protocols and avoided detection. HT stands for 'hidden threat.'" Chuck shuddered and took another sip. "The existence of such a list has never been officially proven, but if it did exist, the fear is that it could cause institutions to crumble, topple governments, wreak complete and utter destruction on the intelligence infrastructure. Agent would turn against Agent. Some would believe the list, others wouldn't. In the end, it wouldn't matter if the list were accurate, the damage would be done either way, but _if_ that list was accurate and someone had actually figured out a way to track and identify individuals that weren't picked up on traditional scans, it would set equality back to the 2020s, or worse."

"You said, no one had ever officially proved the existence of an HT list?" Sam followed up.

"Choose your questions wisely, kid," Chuck said, his tone warm and nonthreatening, but taking on that air that Sam had long known meant Chuck was deflecting because he had to. That way lay dragons, and Sam had better be damn sure they were the dragons he wanted to slay before he spent all his ammunition on them.

Of course the dragons were metaphorical, but Sam didn't need to slay anyone, not today. He just needed to figure out how to get answers.

Chuck continued, "The HT list, someone says they've got it, and it's tied to whatever string of grisly crimes they've got you investigating. Am I right?"

Charlie nodded. "It's a mess. We got involved tracking--" she broke off, biting her lip uncertainly, unsure of how much classified information she could justify giving to Chuck even if he was a witness and an expert of sorts.

"You started tracking murders of mutants--empaths, phys, you were assigned because the cases were complex, definitely connected, possibly the work of a serial killer. They say they're letting you play in the _real _world now, but humans don't want to investigate mutant murders, especially if the victims are empaths, so naturally, the work fell to you."__

__Charlie nodded. "Only then it got really _odd_." She explained about the notes. The entries purporting to be from the HT list. How it didn’t make sense because the people were so varied—young, old, middle-aged. Born on all different continents. Currently serving, past service, kids in the academy._ _

__But then it made sense. These were kids who were _passing _, whose _parents_ , and oftentimes grandparents, must have passed undetected, unregistered, untracked. Completely under the radar. And some of the older generations... they were on the list. Or _could_ have been, if the list was real. Whether it was real or not, whoever was killing them knew they were sensors and empaths, even though no one else did—even when they’d somehow escaped notice with registration. Every. Single. Body turned out to be an empath or sensor.___ _

____She explained how the case had taken a stranger turn when they got called up by Deputy Director Crowley and overnight were shipped out and added to his taskforce. There were more murders. Three at first, all prominent members of the law enforcement and intelligence communities. Two currently active, one recently retired, all working in fields that had traditionally banned mutants or were severely restricted their access to them. All three agents had been subjected to post-mortem DNA tests. All three had tested positive. One was an empath in a highly sensitive CIA post. The potential for disaster loomed and the situation threatened to spiral out of control._ _ _ _

____"Their murders were tied to the list," Chuck surmised._ _ _ _

____"Yeah," Sam answered. "That's how we wound up working with Singer."_ _ _ _

____" _Bobby_ Singer?" Chuck asked, surprised. "I thought he retired a decade ago."_ _ _ _

____"He did," Sam replied. "It's his son, Dean Singer, who's the Special Agent in Charge."_ _ _ _

____"Dean Singer," Chuck echoed, sounding strangely unsettled._ _ _ _

____Sam couldn't figure out what had put that pinched, breathy sound in Chuck's voice. "Yeah, why, do you know him?"_ _ _ _

____"Not really," Chuck answered, shaking his head absentmindedly. He was staring at a fixed point somewhere over Charlie's shoulder, and not quite paying attention. "It's just... strange... I remember when he was a little kid. I can't believe it's been so long." He shook himself again, and his focus returned, "Tell me though, what the hell do murders today about an HT list have anything to do with your mom?"_ _ _ _

____"Because when we put the two sets of cases together another pattern emerged; it wasn't just the list. Every single murder had a reference to Mary Campbell. Somehow her death is tied up in it. Tied to the list, tied to the people being identified, or how they're being identified, or who they were 30 years ago or what their families were doing... we're not sure yet." Pushing the curiosity aside, Sam asked, "Look Chuck, I get what you're doing, dodging the point. But there are a couple of things we really need to ask."_ _ _ _

____Chuck just turned his eyes to Sam expectantly._ _ _ _

____"Why was Mary Campbell killed?" Charlie said suddenly._ _ _ _

____"Why on earth would you think I would know that?" Chuck answered, a sudden edge in his voice._ _ _ _

____"Because you have to. You weren't the killer. You weren't involved in the conspiracy. You were a victim. But you knew something, you still _know _something about Mary, about _why_ someone would want to kill her right then, something that went beyond being a friend with an empath activist, something that was so important that you made sure the secret stayed buried even though it meant your best friend's killer went free. Whatever it is you know, you took two bullets for it when I was 15 years old." He finished glancing at Chuck's wheelchair.___ _ _ _

______Chuck glared at him. “I don’t _know_. Not with the kind of certainty you’re talking about. Mary made absolutely sure that only certain people knew certain things. She got that from Winchester and his associates.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“So she did know him?” Charlie asked._ _ _ _ _ _

______Chuck short her a look that said _don’t be stupid_. “That would be an understatement.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Were they friends?” Sam asked._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Yes,” Chuck replied. “Although again, that would be an understatement. The point is, Mary knew how much danger the information she had put everyone in. She was always very in control and when she got it in her head to do something a certain way, you’d better believe that was how it was done. She wanted me… She told me she _needed_ me to be there for you, Sam. And there was no way I’d live long enough to raise you if I _knew._ So, I didn’t get any of the big secrets.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam opened his mouth to interject, but Chuck cut him off like he had so many times as a child._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That doesn’t mean I can’t answer your questions or at least give you clues. I do know John Winchester didn’t kill Mary. Or if somehow he did, it certainly wasn’t his choice or of his own free will.” He let that sink in. “I can also tell you, John is probably one of the people who has part of the secret. And I say part, because if I understand what _kind_ of secret Mary was keeping, it was as much about physical _proof_ than actual knowledge of facts. Also, wherever she could, Mary hid the facts in the people who could best protect those secrets.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“What do you mean?” Sam asked, not following._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh, oh, it’s like Kevin was saying!” Charlie realized aloud._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sam thought back to their teammate introductions. “You mean about common misconceptions about empaths?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Well, that would be an awfully… understated way to put it, but Kevin was saying that empaths aren’t really a threat to people because it’s almost impossible to alter a memory or mood, on the long term anyway, of an individual, unless they are willing and complicit. But they _can_ alter their own memories and perceptions—it’s all about belief and instinct. So, I think Mr. Shurley…”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Please, call me Chuck,” he said with a nervous laugh._ _ _ _ _ _

______Charlie nodded. “Chuck is suggesting empaths could learn a secret and forget it.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“What good would that do?” Sam asked, but even as he said it, he could hear Kevin’s voice explaining, _For empaths, memory and mood manipulation is mostly a matter of self-defense, in that it’s typically_ inner _directed and is automatic, reflexive. Need to forget and we forget. Need to remember and we remember. It’s a bit more complex than that, but it’s the basic gist._ “Oh, they could forget the secret until they needed to remember it.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Precisely,” Chuck said, picking up the narrative. “You know your mom was an evolutionary biologist by training, right? I mean among her many talents. Well, we met when we were in school. She had a lot of theories about empaths and sensors and humans and how similar we were, where we all came from, how each ‘branch’ of humanity evolved. And let’s just say her ideas were more than a little unpopular._ _ _ _ _ _

______“See your maternal grandfather, Sam, _was_ human at least ostensibly speaking. But many generations back he’d had people with both heightened empathic abilities and stronger than normal senses. Your grandmother was a sensor through and through… although her family had escaped detection for years. That’s why your mom was born an incredibly gifted sensor to a sensor of above-average skill and a human with very distant relations who were both empaths and sensors._ _ _ _ _ _

______“In addition to thinking we weren’t all that different after all, she also started to get a theory that specifically empaths and sensors were two sides of the same coin… connected.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“As in one compliments the other?” Sam asked, trying to wrap his mind around the new information._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That’s about half of it. The other half, well… a coin has two sides, but they’re both the coin. So heads or tails could just as easily be heads _and _tails. Although, for any individual, the scale tended to skew one way or the other… it just skewed a lot less for some.___ _ _ _ _ _

________‘You can imagine what would happen if the theory go out under the wrong circumstances. Those who fear being usurped by sensors and empaths would feel vindicated, because after all, if we’re all the same, a few generations down the line, we could all be like each other. But with the right proof. The right demonstration and the right background it could change things for the better.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It took Sam a few moments to realize Chuck had stopped talking. “That’s it?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Whoever killed your mother was either law enforcement or a spy. They were government. The only two people I know it wasn’t (other than myself) are John Winchester and James Azazel…_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Azazel?” Charlie asked, surprised to hear the name of the virulently anti-mutant ex-Director of the FBI._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Yup. He would have loved to have done it, but he didn’t. A fact he confided in _many._ Alright, Sam, I’d say it’s time you two were on your way. I say anything more and no amount of security in the universe will save me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	8. Chapter 5

Charlie sat down with an audible huff, dropping her tablet to the table in obvious frustration. "Are you sure Winchester said Campbell had _two_ kids? Two, not one?" she asked.

Sam looked up from his own tablet, still scanning the extraordinarily lengthy results of his database search out of the corner of his eye. At this rate, he'd be able to file his report to Singer by the time he was 80. He struggled to find the words to answer, how to explain the _feeling_ he'd gotten from his heavily monitored, restricted, long-distance audio interview with Winchester that had nothing to do with enhanced sensory input or anything else he could rationally explain. Plus, he was a little wary about discussing this aspect of their investigation in the office where anyone could overhear. And for once it wasn't even the ever-present official and unofficial technological surveillance systems but the very human eyes and ears of one Special Agent Anna Milton. Singer had tacitly approved their deviation from protocol and Crowley was more likely to give them a pat on the back than a reprimand, but Milton... she'd go over all their heads and make a goddamned mess.

"Sam?" Charlie prompted.

Biting his lip, Sam answered. "Well, I got the distinct impression Winchester wasn't exactly all there, not to mention he's an identified _and_ convicted terrorist, but yeah, he seemed pretty confident she had two kids. Two sons, actually. It seemed pretty important to him. He kinda kept circling back to it." Sam kept his voice low and tried to hide the hitch in his voice when he remembered Winchester's fascination with him, the absolute joy and marvel in his voice, when he had looked at Sam, realized he was talking to Mary's son. _Mary's younger son._

"Okay," Charlie acknowledged, giving Sam a squinty look that told him she hadn't missed that hitch. "So how is it possible that Mary Campbell had _another_ child, yet there are no hospital records, no birth records, no suspicious adoptions, no legitimate adoptions, absolutely no record of her having another child whatsoever?"

Sam shrugged, feeling Charlie's frustration.

"It's really not that odd or unbelievable," another voice chimed in.

It was all Sam could do not to jump.

"O relax, Campbell," Bella continued, because it was she who had spoken, "the Bitch left hours ago. Singer doesn't want her anywhere near this side of the investigation." She leaned in conspiratorially, "He doesn't trust her as far as Tran can throw her," she said in a stage whisper.

"I heard that!" Kevin shouted from somewhere on the other side of the bullpen.

This time both Sam and Charlie jumped.

"Seriously?" Kevin asked in disbelief. "You know for two people with supernaturally enhanced senses, you two sure suck at paying attention.”

Sam frowned.

"Singer has Novak babysitting Milton,” Kevin explained.

“Realy?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah, Singer sent them to process physical evidence on the latest suspected crime scenes. He has Novak handling the notes and told Milton to put her _liaison_ background to work liaising with other agencies. Basically she can’t say anything or she’ll breach protocol and he’ll be able to write her up, while Novak handles all the sensitive information. They were in Prague last I heard, so we'll have plenty of forewarning if she tries to come back. Singer'd rather have her chasing her tail than fucking up the investigation with her bigotry. That's why you've got us..." Kevin added.

"Unless your own biases prevent you from playing well with humans--" Bella interjected

"And emos," Kevin finished.

"Huh," Charlie half-grunted.

Sam just blinked. It took a few moments to digest the way Kevin casually threw around his classification. After all, he’d known Kevin was an empath, but Sam was so used to everyone being uptight and secretive with their status, fearful of judgment or retaliation. Even other sensors… so to hear an empath being so… glib was quite the surprise. When Sam finally shook himself free of his musings, something Bella had said jogged his memory. "You said this wasn't that odd?" he asked Bella.

She blinked slowly and that was all the time it took to pick up his train of thought. "Or unbelievable," she added with a nod.

"Well, what do you mean?" he asked, as Charlie nodded emphatically in agreement. Sam gave Bella his full attention, the data dump on his tablet temporarily forgotten.

"Well we already know Mary Campbell was pregnant twice," she began.

"We do?" Sam and Charlie asked in unison.

Bella just rolled her eyes.

"Eyewitness accounts," Kevin explained.

When Sam just blinked in confusion, Bella added, "People _saw_ Mary Campbell experience two different pregnancies. One in 2067 and '68--"

"That was you, Sam," Kevin added.

It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "I know my own birthdate, thanks."

"And one four or five years before that in 2063 or so," Bella added.

"It's probably not just eyewitness accounts, either," Kevin added. "There's probably news footage somewhere. She was on media _a lot_.

"Yeah," Bella said snagging Sam's tablet. "See here?" The pointed at a vid she'd dragged up from one of the many links Sam had been ignoring as not being "on topic" enough. "November 2063. It's a recorded address to the UN Human Rights commission. That's Mary Campbell," she pointed at a slender blond woman on the screen, "and _that's_ a significant baby bump." She pointed at the rounded swell of the woman's belly.

Sam blinked. It was his mother. Sometimes he forgot she'd ever had a _life_ , since everything he knew about her revolved around her death. "Huh."

"Okay, so if she was pregnant, what?" Charlie asked. "Maybe she lost the baby? Because there are no records. Anywhere. I'm not even seeing the telltale signs of a good cover job. There are no mismatched tags, no signs of a wipe. Nothing about the files or history looks _too_ clean. I mean, I know what this would look like if it was hacked. And it hasn't been hacked."

"Maybe someone's just better than you," Kevin teased sliding over in his chair.

"No one's better than her," Sam said at the same time as Charlie said, "No one's better than me."

"So what? Mary carried the pregnancy to term and there are just no records? She was a known hypersensor. The Registration Act—"

Bella cut Sam off, "The registration act wasn't passed until February 2064. It wasn't ratified until May."

Charlie stared, as if Bella's words had spurred her to action. "You're right--"

"Of course I'm right," Bella shot back. "Masters degree in twenty-first century political history, remember?" She hooked a thumb back at her chest.

"Yeah and Ph.D. in being a full-of-yourself pain in our ass, yeah I remember," Charlie muttered, fingers flying across the screen of another tablet. "That's not what I meant. This vid was taken at a hearing for the Registration Act. Campbell was arguing against it..." Charlie let her voice trail off, clearly lost in thought as she focused on something, her hands flying over the tablet in a blur of motion that would have been impossible for a _human_ eye to track. As it was, the flurry threatened to make Sam dizzy. "Okay, yeah I was right. Campbell wasn't just opposed to the bill. She was the ranking minority member on the committee that vetted it. And she authored and introduced several amendments that were ultimately passed. The amendments softened the Act, delayed its approval, and reduced its scope. Not to mention, she was instrumental in the negotiations that brought key nations to her side either in opposing the Registration Act altogether or, later on, after it was clear it would pass, in supporting the less invasive version."

"Wait what kind of amendments are we talking about?" Sam asked, feeling his stomach flip with sudden fear and instinctual _importance_.

"The original version would have stripped empaths of all parental rights," Kevin spoke up.

Four heads turned to look at him.

"What? My mom always used to talk about it when I was a kid. She said Mary Campbell was a hero, if not for her, we never would have known each other. No matter how bad I thought it was, or how much I hated living in the ghetto, at least I had my mom. If the original version of the Act passed, my mom would have done time for an unauthorized pregnancy, and I would have grown up in an institution."

Sam blinked.

"He's not wrong," Charlie said softly. Her usual exuberance subdued. "The act would have required registration of all mutant kids. Empaths would have had to apply for permission to reproduce and all... parents of unauthorized children would have faced jail or prison time. Empath kids would have been raised in segregated institutions. The parents who didn't get arrested, would have limited visitation rights. Sensor kids would have had to go to segregated schools and would have been barred from a few dozen _more_ occupations. All children, even those born to humans would have undergone DNA testing at birth. Historians and political scientists believed it was a precursor to forced sterilization for empaths and greater restrictions on sensors."

"Wait, wait, go back a minute, what was that last thing?" Sam asked, understanding twigging in the back of his mind.

"Um, sterilization of empaths?" Charlie asked, uncomfortably.

"No," Sam shook his head. "Before that."

"Uh, let's see, institutionalization, restricted occupations, DNA testing--"

"That's it!" Bella realized as Sam scooted over to get a better look at Charlie's tablet.

"The original version of the act would have tested _all_ newborns' DNA. Human kids too. People wouldn't have been able to hide. Even if you were low level, had really good control, could pass for human, and came from a family where no one had ever been outed, the testing would have ID’d you and labeled you. Have a kid or grandkid test positive, it casts doubt on your whole family. It could, no it _would_ have exposed generations of mutants sailing under the radar," Sam said.

Kevin was nodding along with him.

Charlie was looking confused  
"This is it," Sam explained. "Well, part of it anyway. If the original version of the Act had passed it would have been almost impossible for anyone to go undetected. The—the murders today. The names on the list—none of that would have happened because no one would have made it in the FBI or any other restricted occupation without being detected. That's the big connection to Campbell, or part of it, anyway. They blame her."

"Not that I don't agree, but couldn't someone have slipped through the cracks with a home birth or something?" Kevin asked raising his hand tentatively.

"Yes, but no. See, DNA files would have been required for admission to schools, driver's licenses, IDs, health care... if you had wanted to dodge the system you would have had to go totally off the grid," Charlie explained. “And anyone who was discovered could have been silenced.”

“It also could have shown people that empaths and sensors weren’t dangerous… I mean, if it turns out your kids’ teachers were empaths all along, maybe you…” Sam tried, but even saying the words, he didn’t believe them. “Yeah, no. I’m being way too generous in my assessment of humanity.”

"Okay, okay," Charlie added, sounding impatient. "I get why you're so excited, but you're still missing the point I was trying to make."

"Huh?" Sam asked, wondering for the moment what was possibly more important than a key piece of the serial killer's motivation.

"This explains how Mary could have a kid and no one knew about it. She either postponed the bill so she could deliver before the registration went into play or... or she specifically timed her pregnancy based on the bill's schedule—it was in the works for well over a year. Either way she knew where and when she could deliver a child and evade registration or regulation. Think about it. Before the Registration Act went into effect, there were what, three? Four? Nationstates that didn't require centralized birth records?" Charlie explained looking to Bella for confirmation.

"Five, actually," Bella replied. "Greece, Switzerland, Taiwan, Brazil, and Swaziland," Bella enumerated. "If she was in any of those countries and she went to a small hospital or hired a midwife, she could have had a kid and avoided both registration and most compulsory standard records, if she'd wanted to."

"So we're looking for a kid born between November..." Charlie consulted the vid's metadata, "November 19, 2063, and May 3, 2064."

"February 15," Bella and Kevin both interrupted.

Charlie shot a perplexed glance at Sam who just cocked an eyebrow and waited for Bella and Kevin to explain.

Bella and Kevin shared their own nod and Bella went first.

"She was too pregnant in November to justify that broad a search window and she wouldn't have taken the risk of having a baby _after_ the Act passed," Bella offered. "Campbell could have manipulated the process up to that point, but ratification is in the hands of member nations and the timeline is unpredictable. Once passed, the Act could have taken a week to ratify or a year. She couldn't know." She nodded at Kevin.

He had slid his chair all the way over to Sam and Charlie's desks and was sitting on it backwards, straddling the seat with his arms crossed atop the back. He shrugged, "When it comes to laws that regulate mutants, especially anything that restricts empaths, a lot of countries don't wait until it's official or mandatory have to. They start implementing right away."

Kevin sighed. Leaning forward with his chin resting on his crossed arms atop the chair back, his words came out somewhat muffled. "She would have known that, and she wouldn't have risked it. She wouldn't have let the Registration Act come to a vote until her kid was safe."

"Oh," said Charlie. "So we're looking for a kid born between November and February." She sounded as rattled as Sam felt. As a fellow sensor growing up in the post Campbell-Shirley era, Charlie, like Sam had never had to face the full brunt of prejudice experienced by some mutants. Charlie probably thought that kind of bigotry was all in the past...

Sam sure had, until working with Kevin had opened his eyes. He was starting to wonder when he would stop being so _surprised_ by the barbarism of it all.

"Look at travel," Sam said after an awkward silence. "Diplomatic travel, personal travel. Where did Mary Campbell go during those three months? What did she do? Are there any anomalies in the records? Any press reports that mention her near any one of those countries?"

Around him the others sprang into action. Bella and Kevin both joining in the search on their own tablets, chairs pulled in close, heads down, and fingers flying.

"Oh whoa, whoa, I've got something. January 15, 2064, travel records show Mary Campbell took a flight to São Paulo, Brazil... there's another flight record from February 8, 2064, shows her leaving Florianopolis, Brazil for Geneva," Bella said.

"Is there any reason for the trip listed? Any memo?" Sam asked, following the link Bella forwarded him to pull up the same record.

"Both are coded diplomatic," Bella answered.

"Oh yeah, I think I found why," Charlie said. "January 12, 2064, official orders log shows Ambassador Campbell accepted a good will mission to Brazil as part of the UN'a intercultural dialogues initiative."

"That wasn't even her department," Kevin murmured.

"Did it say who ordered the trip?" Sam asked.

"Uh, no, no it doesn't."

"Maybe the orders are classified, did you try running an index search--" Sam started, fingers already moving to reflexively punch in the commands.

“No, she _requested_ the assignment.” Bella answered, holding her tablet up as she found the results. “Huh… there also don’t seem to be any _pictures_ from the trip, which is odd for it being an intercultural dialogue event… the press usually gloms onto those.”

“Any indication where she went? How she traveled?” Sam asked, his heartbeat picking up a notch. He was close, close to understanding something, he knew it!

“All travel was locally arranged. There’s actually a memo,” Kevin said. “Wait—” his tablet made an angry squawking sound that caused everyone around him to stop their own searches and look up. Kevin prodded his tablet and got an even angrier-sounding squawk. The device vibrated and flashed an angry red. He looked up and met Sam’s eyes. He didn’t seem scared. He seemed to be _searching_ for something. Before Sam could spare a thought for what that expression might mean on an empath, Kevin seemed to find what he was looking for, because he broke Sam’s gaze, nodded, and went back to furiously entering commands into the tablet. 

“Wait—is that?” Bella asked. “Did you just enter a first echelon override?” 

“Holy shit, you did didn’t you,” Charlie answered, watching his fingers attentively. “And that was a keylogger blocker… are you using Singer’s codes?”

“Crowley’s” Kevin answered. “No he won’t be upset. He gave them to me and… yeah, I have to get Singer before we can go any further.”

“Why?” Asked Sam.

“Because that flag? That was a tericept alert. Terrorism Intercept. For a suspected empath resistance fighter. They think Mary Campbell met with a cell in Brazil,” Kevin explained.

“While she was in Brazil in 2064 on a bogus mission secretly delivering her secret baby?” Charlie asked.

“Yes.”

“So why can’t we go further? You’ve got the file open,” Charlie started to grab for the tablet, but Sam stopped her.

“Don’t,” he said stilling Charlie’s hand. It felt like the _right_ thing to do. 

Kevin gave him an inscrutable look. “We can’t go further because John Winchester was a member of the cell Mary Campbell supposedly visited and he was believed to be in Brazil at the time she was there. _That_ contact was never confirmed, but there was another contact with a member of the same group that was confirmed. That individual was seen several times in February and March of the same year in the company of a young baby before she slipped out of the Nationstate’s jurisdictional borders and resurfaced in the North American “Midwest” sans infant, six months later. The individual? It’s Singer’s CI,” Kevin explained. “My mom.”

~~~

They went to Singer with their findings, and he agreed to arrange a meeting with his confidential informant, Linda Tran. She was able to confirm that Mary Campbell did have a baby in 2064 while in Brazil, but would only say that the child had returned to the custody of his father after she’d safely transported him across borders. They’d poked and prodded further but go nowhere, she kept insisting it wasn’t her story to tell. The only clues she would give was that it involved John Winchester. Somehow. Sam was starting to suspect _how_ , but he couldn’t be sure, and another phone interview wasn’t going to get it for him.

So with the bodies mounting and two more murders linked to their case within a week, Singer and Crowley consented to the unthinkable—a face-to-face visit with John Winchester himself.


	9. Chapter 6

Morningside Secure Detention Facility, or _New Alcatraz_ as the prison was more commonly known, was not situated on a rock of an island in an inhospitable bay surrounded by strong currents and shark-infested salt waters like its namesake. But it did rise, impressive and impenetrable, shimmering in the sunrise. 

Morningside was on a rock, but rather than seeming to float on the sea, it was carved out of a mountain surrounded by a very deep and unexpectedly wide moat of human origin that was itself ringed by the barren, rocky wilderness somewhere in central Asia. The precise coordinates were known only to a precious few. Not even the guards knew where they worked, just that it was somewhere far enough north that the days had very little light in winter, but far enough south that they were below the arctic circle; at an elevation high enough that the temperature seldom rose above freezing, even in summer, but not so high to necessitate oxygen support for those venturing outside. It housed only empaths, and was designed as much to keep people out as it was to keep people in. If anyone had managed to escape the electrically charged water at the bottom of the moat would get them and if anyone managed to make it further, well the wolves would get them if the weather didn't. 

Sam shuddered despite himself as the chopper dropped through a pocket of warmer air and bounced a little before smoothing out and allowing the pilot to set them down on the helipad inside the moat. That was the other thing. There was no drawbridge. The only way in or out was by air. Even the prison staff and guards were at the mercy of the elements and the availability of choppers to fly them out, and there were never any choppers parked onsite. They landed exchanged passengers and supplies and took off. Even Sam and Charlie were dependent upon the regular chopper schedule. There were never any special or extra flights added, not even to bring in high risk prisoners or ferry around VIP guests.

Upon touchdown, their transport was met by a team of four--two unarmed censors and two armed humans. The doors slid open but the passengers--which included a handful of backup staff and a stray lawyer in addition to Sam and Charlie--were not allowed to leave. Instead, they were all subjected to a deep mental scan and an equally probing physical scan courtesy of the human guards' handheld wands (guaranteed to detect metal, concealed ceramics, unapproved drugs and poisons, and tech, while also confirming the biometrics of each individual matched their ID and their documentation authorizing their presence at the prison. 

When the guards were satisfied the passengers were allowed to disembark. No sooner had Sam stepped down into the crunching snow, still ducking to clear the swirling rotor blades and squinting against the prickling, white gale that swirled around them, than the choppers doors snicked shut and it began to lift off. There were no passengers leaving the prison on this flight.

As the chopper pulled away, arcing high over the craggy mountains before heading west, the air settled somewhat, and the painful cloud of white resolved into light flurries softly falling and dusting the ground. Sam opened his mouth to ask a question, but the guards were already dividing the passengers into three groups--staff, lawyer, and feds-- and pointing them towards three other groups of guards approaching from the prison. These guards worked in teams of two, one human, one sensor, and wore different uniforms. Again the sensors were unarmed, while the humans were armed to the hilt. The guards stopped well short of the helipad, but the first set of guards just silently pointed each group of passengers towards their respective welcoming party. Sam had to resist the urge to raise his hands in surrender. He was a _fed_ damnit, but under the guards' watchful scrutiny, he felt more like a prisoner... or maybe a microbe on a petri dish.

"What, no escort?" Charlie asked aloud, voicing Sam's thoughts as they neared the second group of guards.

It was just an offhand comment, so Sam almost jumped when the sensor guard replied "Perimeter guards are not permitted to enter the prison nor to cross the 15-meter threshold."

"What? Not ever?" Sam asked, surprise overriding his manners and better judgment.

"Operational security," the sensor replied again. "Surely you can understand the need in a facility such as this." The guard's accent was British--upper class Londoner, if Sam's childhood diplomatic and political exposure was any good--and his tone was almost condescending. 

"So they stand out here the whole time? In the elements? No guard house?" Sam asked. Even though the snow was lighter now that they were out of the helicopter's backwash, the wind was still fierce, the cold stinging more with every second. His nose burned and his lips were feeling a little numb and they'd only been outside for three minutes, four tops, and it was April last he'd checked, spring... or at least it was in the Northern hemisphere, but, no there was nowhere south of the equator with the right topography. Standing outside in these conditions with minimal movement for 12-hour shifts day-in and day-out... it was a miracle the guards weren't all dead.

"I assure you we only hire those whose physical and psychological profiles support prime functioning in extreme environments and conditions." 

Sam guessed the guard's words were supposed to be reassuring, but they really weren't.

"So why didn't you come get us?" Charlie challenged.

"Ah well the same reason, of course. Outer base guards are not permitted over the 30-meter perimeter outside of regularly scheduled shift changes. Any unauthorized zone crossing leads to immediate termination on sight. Trust me, we don't like anyone moving about unescorted, but I assure you all... guests and guards are under pre-targeted biometric trigger during all transits and exchanges. If anyone so much had toed out of linen they would have been shot. So you are as protected as we can make you at all times."

"What about emergencies?" Sam asked.

"I'm afraid there are no exceptions and no emergency procedures. Our primary goal here is keeping the most dangerous empaths on Earth secure. That means ensuring they can't get out and no one unauthorized can get in. Any deviation from protocol and procedure exposes vulnerabilities and increases the likelihood of containment failure. Thus any deviation from protocol is impermissible."

"At the cost of lives?" Charlie asked.

"Every inmate is the worst sentient life has to offer. They are all eligible for execution, but are kept alive because their skills or knowledge are more valuable to the government than their deaths. To counteract that security risk, we must risk lives," the sensor guard glanced at his companion, "even _human_ lives to ensure no greater threats are realized. It is something all staff know and accept before entering the service. It is a risk all... guests must take while on business here." His gaze shifted from Sam to Charlie and back, assessing. "I assumed your superiors had informed you. I assure you these risks are disclosed fully in the nondisclosure nondisclosure agreements you signed, the details often get lost in the fine print, but agency staff are usually good about notifying their subordinates.

Sam and Charlie exchanged a glance. Deputy Director Crowley's warning that they would _be on their own in there_ and _there was nothing he could do to help them_ took on new meaning. No wonder Singer had been shooting them slightly panicked looks.

"It was explained," Charlie replied. "The full import of the Deputy Director's words was not previously clear."

"If you find the risk unacceptable, we have a holding room on the surface where you can remain until the next scheduled transport with available passenger space," the guard offered.

"That won't be necessary," Sam reassured, shaking his head. 

The guard gave a half-shrug and cocked his head at them before continuing on their trek towards the prison. The roughhewn mountain looming ever closer. 

"Should you be telling us this?" Charlie asked, suspicious.

"If you have clearance to go where your orders say you're going, you have clearance for me to answer your questions." He paused and looked over his shoulder at them. "Besides if you attempt to do anything... inappropriate with this information, we know where you live and we have your biometrics on file. It doesn't take much to prime a trigger, you know."

With that the small group continued towards the prison in silence. The sensor guard leading the group. The human guard on their six guarding them from the rear. Sam couldn't help but notice the human didn't speak. Nor had the human perimeter guards... the sensors had given them instructions, and come to think of it the same was true for the crew and staff on the helitransport. A picture was forming in Sam's mind and it was distinctly unsettling. The not talking thing didn't have to mean anything sinister, after all there were all sorts of military and civilian posts that required absolute silence from their staff, but something about the implementation and its implications sent a chill up Sam's spine. 

After a few minutes, Charlie asked, sotto voce, "I don't understand why they use human... people guards at all. Why use sentient organics when you could have computers do the work? They definitely have the infrastructure in place and they're not tech phobic, so why risk any lives at all? Why not just lock up the prisoners and handle everything else by remote?" Charlie glanced around nervously. "It's almost like they _want_ to kill people, and not just the inmates."

Sam did his best to suppress an involuntary shudder. He has his suspicions about ulterior motives (any lives lost in the securing of the prisoners helped to ensure public hatred and ire towards the prisoners while reinforcing the supposed importance of the knowledge and skills that were keeping them alive), but the practical reason was there too. Of course Charlie, who preferred tech to people any day would overlook it. "Redundancy," Sam said at last.

"What?"

"Computers can be hacked. The same goes for any kind of AI, even autonomous AI. On the other hand, people can be hacked. But different kinds of people can be hacked in different ways and computers and AI can't be hacked in the same way people can. So they layer the systems. Have multiple organic and tech systems covering the same functions. Overlapping checks and balances. You might hack one or two, but you can't hack them all."

Charlie was silent for a moment, the crunch of boots on snow the only noise. "That's brilliant," she admitted at last, "but it totally gives me the creeps."

Sam leaned towards her ear and whispered conspiratorially, "I know."

The guards ushered them up to the mountainside and through a hidden door that was secured with a dozen or so scans, verifications, and challenge-response codes. On the other side of the door, the mountain prison opened into a network of long, cylindrical hallways that reminded Sam of a cross between classic Star Wars movies he'd watched as a kid and what he imagined a mineshaft might look like. The floors were made of grating and there was surprisingly little exposed rock. Instead the warren of hallways was fully lined and the hallways intersected at junctions that looked like they might be found inside giant pipes. 

The guard spoke again to explain they were in the outer tier of the prison, still outside the secure area, before leading them down a hallway that led further into the mountain and ended at a large elevator that appeared to be constricted entirely of bullet proof Plexiglas and more grating. This lift, he explained, would take them to the security checkpoint for Prison Sector 5, the most isolated, secure, and sensitive section of the prison, which was already the supermax of supermaxes for empath inmates. Sector 5 was located several hundred meters down, deep under the mountain. There were no stairs. No handholds. Just a select few lifts that covered only a few dozen levels each. Each lift was isolated from the next, and was keyed only to respond to human and sensor biometrics working in tandem--in case the prison itself wasn't security enough.

The first lift had descended no more than a level or two, however, when one of the active scans swept across the elevator car and an alarm sounded. The lift came to a swift but silent halt and immediately went into lock down.

The human guard immediately stepped back against the wall and raised his carbine to cover both Charlie and Sam, while the sensor guard approached a wall panel and vegan interacting with a holographic interface. 

Sam hadn't had time to process his alarm at the turn of events, but Charlie's hands were already moving to her sidearm. Sensing that was the worst thing they could do, Sam started to shake his head. At the same moment, Charlie seemed to reach the same conclusion and froze, and hovering over her holster. 

The sensor guard was turning back to them and looked apologetic, not hostile. "I am sorry for the inconvenience and oversight, but I am afraid we are going to have to take a slight detour to security and processing before we can proceed to the checkpoint."

Sam and Charlie shared a confused glance.

"You must understand, the circumstances are so rare that it did not occur to me or my superiors that this protocol would be needed. I hadn't imagined the FBI would send one sensor agent let alone two. Personally forgotten that the FBI permitted sensors to serve in armed units," he gave an amused chuckle that wasn't particularly amusing. "But I am afraid hypersensors are absolutely prohibited from possessing or carrying firearms or other weapons inside Morningside territory. You will hand over your weapons, and we will take them and you to the security office so they can be tagged, logged, and stowed, and your biometrics can be recorded related to the infraction." He held up his hands in what Sam assumed to be a placating gesture. "Don't worry. The infraction will be explained and excused and the blame strictly placed on our failure in oversight. This will not impair your ability to fulfill the Bureau's orders or prevent you from leaving."

"We're not turning over our weapons until we reach the secure area," Sam Protested. 

"47 C.F.R. section 1911, part D governs the conduct of FBI personnel while on official Bureau business at Bureau of Prisons Facilities. UN Continuing Resolution 55-171-J makes this applicable to all prison and detention facilities under UN Control regardless of the implementing or originating entity. We are special agents on official business and this is a UN prison. We are entitled to retain our service weapons until the security checkpoint at which time we are to check our weapons in the same manner as prison guards, corrections officers, and security staff," Charlie added.

The sensor guard laughed. The human guard's weapon didn't budge. 

"I can certainly understand your confusion. That is the law for FBI agents under... normal circumstances. But you see both 5 U.S.C. 20000003(b) and UN Continuing Resolution 55-171-L provide that where a prison facility's regulations conflict or are more specific than an agency's regulations, on prison territory the prison regulations supersede and preempt the agency regulations. Morningside strictly prohibits weapons in the possession of hypersensors such as yourselves. After all, we are quite dangerous enough without any added weaponry."

"Our orders--" Charlie started.

"The portion of your orders that specifies you are to retain weapons is in direct conflict with this facility's operating protocols. There are no exceptions and no deviations. I assume that provision was your superior's... misinformed attempt to circumvent Morningside regulation, although I cannot fathom the reason for such an attempt. No bother, organics and computers make different types of errors. Where one may fail, the other succeeds, and the lift here caught this before it became a bigger problem." The guard smiled, and Sam had a sinking feeling the guard's choice of words meant he'd been listening to the earlier exchange between Sam and Charlie. After a moment, the guard continued, "This is a classification-based restriction, and I daresay one's classification is far more important than one's job."

Sam could almost feel Charlie's seething anger as if it were his own. Meanwhile a feeling of betrayal washed over him, a reminder from his childhood when it seemed like every policy and regulation in existence was trying to trip up his family and separate him from Chuck, even after the courts had said they could stay together. Lest he ever forget sensors were still second-class citizens at best. So it was with bitter irony that he spoke his next words. "Funny, out there you could almost forget that." As he spoke he reached under his jacket so he could remove his side arm from his shoulder holster. After only a moment's hesitation he knelt to remove his backup gun from his left ankle holster and the ceramic knife from his right. Those items would have been undoubtedly logged in the perimeter scan and failing to turn them over now would just cause more trouble.

Beside him, Charlie glared, shooting Sam a look that made him feel sick. She wanted to fight this, push it, but she understood why they couldn't, and it was tearing her up inside. It was like Sam could see the emotions in her eyes. 

It was more than that.

Reluctantly they moved together to hold out their weapons.

"Here," Sam said to the sensor guard. 

"Oh goodness, to him, not to me," the guard said, nodding at his silent human companion. "Humans handle the weapons here."

"Yeah, you said," Sam answered.

"Kinda gathered that much," Charlie muttered. 

The human guard reached out and took their weapons, producing a device from his utility belt as he did so. He ran the device over each weapon and it flashed red then green. Sam guessed this was the "tagging" the sensor guard had mentioned. As soon as the light flashed green over the last weapon, the alarm stopped and the lift started moving again although at a decidedly slower speed. They traveled for about 10 seconds before gliding to a stop. One of the Plexiglas and grating sides of the cylindrical elevator slid back and opened into a curved hallway. Sam got a sense it probably formed a ring around the roughly circular mountain prison, but on a shorter radius than the perimeter hallway they'd been in before.

"This way please," the sensor guard said, guiding them down the hall in the only direction possible. 

Sam followed him with Charlie reluctantly falling into step behind him. The human guard took up the rear, his carbine no longer pointed at them, but still held at the ready a constant reminder that the system now seemed to think of them as transgressive, a threat.

They reached the security office in short order and endured a mercifully quick, but no less dehumanizing process to "rectify" the situation. They were photographed and fingerprinted and subjected to full body scans while the two guards gave written statements and Sam and Charlie's orders were inspected.

Sam was pretty sure the process would have been more drawn out, but as soon as the security supervisor saw their orders and Sam's ID, they put two and two together and _someone_ decided it was not a good idea to harass, demean, or delay the surviving son of a martyr who was there in the service of the government to question his late mother's believed killer. (Never mind that the orders said Charlie was supposed be questioning Winchester, Sam was willing to bet the guards weren't buying that for a second.) At that point the supervisor and a few sensors had gathered in a corner and engaged in a hushed conversation that ended with the supervisor officially apologizing to Sam for the inconvenience, while reiterating that rules were rules, and here, rules were inflexible, so please forgive them. It didn't make the process any less demeaning (if anything it was worse, since now everyone realized who he was) and they still didn't have any weapons. But it was quick. 

Paperwork done, their two guards escorted them back to the lift, which was either still waiting or had been replaced with an identical lift in the time they'd been away. They resumed their journey downwards, whizzing along at such a dizzying speed that Sam had no sense of how deep they'd gone. It was unsettling, so unsettling in fact that he unleashed his senses and reached out only to find the car they were riding in was wrapped in some sort of dampening material or field. His flinch at the discovery alerted Charlie that something was wrong. She looked at him with concern, but Sam shook his head. That earned him a cocked eyebrow, and after that it was pretty clear Charlie had figured it out. Her focus stilled for a moment, her eyes started to widen, and then she flinched and pulled back. Actually grabbing the wall behind her. 

Both guards had their backs to them at the moment, but Sam would be shocked if the sensor guard hadn't sensed their reactions. The sensor didn't comment though, so Sam got the sense that the prison didn't much care that they'd figured it out.

Charlie stepped closer to Sam, carefully positioning herself between Sam and the guards so it would be all but impossible to see what she said. 

And "see" was the correct term. When Charlie spoke her lips moved, but she didn't vocalize, knowing a fellow sensor would overhear even the quietest statement. "Shielded."

Sam twitched an eyebrow in acknowledgment. Still, why _was_ it shielded? Curiosity piqued he decided to try again. _Sometimes_ , if he extended his senses and then _reached out_ with his mind... _There!_ He could feel the space around them, rock and steel and Plexiglas and air and... only it wasn't the solid confines of rock with tunnels here and there hewn out like a rabbit warren. The mountain was hollow. Sure, the facade of rock was thick, likely impenetrable from the outside and the open expanse didn't seem to harm the structural integrity any--the hollow was a giant dome, the weight of the rock pressing in and increasing the stability. But the structure, it was completely different than they had been led to believe. The walkways and tunnels were suspended, interconnected the only bits of transitable space, but in a sea of nothingness rather than a sea of rock. If someone were to dig out of the existing tunnel network, they'd likely fall to their deaths, or at the very least, have nowhere to go if they succeeded. Down and down and down it went, deep into the earth, far below the base of the mountain relative to the surrounding terrain. And here and there... he could almost smell something. Burnt and electrical, malleable... Explosives? Yes! The entire prison, the entire mountain, really, was rigged with explosives--the junction of every tunnel, room, and hallway, the outer rock shell, all of it was rigged to come down. Implode, and take at least half the mountain with it.

And Sam _got_ it. If anyone tried to escape, they could drop the entire mountain on them... and every other prisoner and staff member inside. It was probably rigged to go if anyone tried to tunnel... yep, sure enough now that he could feel what he was looking for, he could see the pressure sensors with his mind's eye. They were everywhere and in everything. Probably rigged to dual organic and electronic oversight, so person or computer alike could implode the mountain at the touch of a button.

He repressed the shiver, but it only sort of worked. He knew their sensor guard had to have noticed, but would he know what the reaction meant?

Charlie quirked an eyebrow at him, shifting again so he could speak without the guard seeing. 

Sam couldn't help but think they had to be surrounded by electronic surveillance, computerized eyes everywhere that would record the movements his mouth made, register their behavior as suspicious, but Charlie seemed to sense where his mind was wandering, made her repositioning look like she was trying to steady herself and get a better glimpse at the elevator walls, the cavern as it rushed past. She started babbling about the time it was taking them to get through security, whether they would have enough time to c9mplete their mission before the next scheduled transport left, how pissed Crowley would be if they had to wait another 6 hours to get out of the prison. She kept her words vague, her complaints half-hearted, much as she would if she were really frustrated about the time and not really wanting to criticize her boss's boss. 

While she babbled, Sam mouthed the words, relying on Charlie's enhanced senses and mandatory Bureau training in speech reading to convey his words. He half wished she could read his mind, or he could project the thoughts into hers to convey the enormity of what he'd sensed. He imagined his mind opening, reaching out to communicate with hers... and for a second he thought he could _feel_ it happening. 

When they got to the bottom of the lift, they changed guards. And then changed guards again at another lift. When they had finally descended three sets of lifts and were undoubtedly at the bottom of the abyss of mountain and moat, Sam sensed something new… passageways, like honeycomb or maybe a rabbit warren. Little empty pockets of space stretching out and away from the prison and slowly, gradually tunneling _up._

Charlie sensed it too. “Knew they couldn’t stand to leave themselves with no escape. Not the bigwigs anyway… they just want everyone to _think_ there’s no escape,” she mouthed.

And Sam realized what she meant. As they exited the last lift, there were two new guards as there had been before, but both were human… and since the (solitary) guard who had also accompanied them down was also human… “They don’t usually allow us down here,” he mouthed.

Charlie nodded.

After all the rigmarole Sam expected more trouble swapping their official interviews, with Charlie taking John’s compatriot and Sam taking John Winchester himself, but in the end, it was surprisingly easy. They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even bat an eyelash. The guards seemed to assume Sam was there for _retribution._ Only he was there for answers and he knew he could only get them looking into John Winchester’s eyes.

“Sam?” John Winchester said, seeing him for the first time. “Sammy? Oh my god, is it really you?”

And that was when Sam knew for sure, he was John Winchester’s son. Whatever he’d sensed over the phone, being here, in person, it seemed to snap the distance out of John’s eyes. _Unlocking a memory_ , John wordlessly explained. 

Sam tried to quip back, but he was silenced with a glance.

_Not enough time. Need to teach you how to cover so you can get out. You need to find your brother. He holds the other half of your mother’s secret._


	10. Interlude 3

**2071--South Dakota**

"Dean, son, please. Don't walk away from me."

Something in his voice must have captured Dean's attention, because Dean turned, slowly, looking over his shoulder, his eyes pleading.

"You will do this, because you have to. If you don't--if you don't _use_ your abilities to protect yourself--there _is_ no tomorrow. There's no coming back. it's not just game over for you. They'll find Sammy--"

"Bobby, no--" Dean whispered, breath hitching, as he shook his head emphatically. "No."

"You know it will happen. If they find you. They'll figure it out, just like they said, and that will lead them to Sam. They'll start asking who his father is. And it won't matter that he doesn't know, because they'll never stop until they've taken everything. Used you. Destroyed him. And if they know what you are, what _he_ is, it will be the end for all of us."

"Don't--don't use Sammy against me." Dean waved his arms in a defensive cross in front of him, as if fending off phantom attackers.

"Look kid, I'm not trying to threaten you, and I certainly don't want to hurt Sammy, but I made a promise to your parents. _Both_ your parents. And I need to keep you safe. I'm not--I'm not strong enough, powerful enough, to do it _to_ you. And I couldn't live with myself if I did. But if _you_ did..."

"It would be self-defense," Dean realized. "If deep down, I know it's the only way, then I'm not causing harm, I'm saving..." 

Bobby could see the synapses firing behind Dean's eyes. He understood why. He knew how. Now Dean just had to make himself believe. 

"Bobby, I--how is this not losing? If I'm not me, if I don't remember anything, how can I do what I'm supposed to do?"

"It's just belief, Dean. It's not permanent. If you need to, if you _have_ to, you'll remember. Self-defense, remember? It's reflexive."

Dean nodded again. There was lingering uncertainty in his eyes, but Bobby could see he was coming around. 

"When?"

"Do it now. Just make yourself believe. Construct the memories. Build the frame work. Convince yourself it's true. _Push_ yourself to believe it, fill the framework with positive emotions, just like you would if you had to convince someone else. Think of Sammy. Think of what you're fighting for, who you're saving, then take that step, internalize it until it _is_ the truth."

"I can do it. I can believ--"

Bobby watched as Dean Winchester was no more and Dean Singer was born.


	11. Chapter 7

Dean clutched the counter hands shaking harder with each passing moment. It had never been this bad. No... it had never beem this bad since--

_Since what?_

The flashes of almost memory, split-second images sharp and distinct interspersed with a whirlwind blur and a terrifying feelung of _no_. He wasn't supposed to remember. He'd promised himself. There was nothing to remember. He knew the truth.

_He'd made himself forget. He'd forgotten until he--_

Dean's right hand slipped and he lost hus balance, hip crashing into the counter with a muffled thud. There was pain.

_Can't think about the pain._

But he was more focused on wrestling the bottle of pills open. It was too late now. No way to stop it. Last time it had been this bad--

_I forgot until I believed. I believed becausr I had to._

He was sixteen years old. The sharp, too-loud beep of the hospital's monitors echoed in his head, each pulse as painful as if an old-style air raid siren was going off next to his ear. His eyes were squeezed shut against the kleig lights above him, the light blindingly bright even through his closed eyelids. His skin was on fire, the crisp starched hospital sheets stabbing and grating against him like a porcupine's quills, and the overwhelming stench of disinfectants, blood, and decay that settled in the back of his throat, making him gag.

People were in the room or maybe nearby. They were speaking in hushed voices that stabbed into his head. Someone--a doctor, maybe--was almost squeaking, saying it was all "highly irregular," while his... Dad and Uncle Bobby--

 _Uncle_? Bobby?

\--Tried to distract the idiot, get him to shut up. Dean could hear the moment their voices changed, first Bobby then Dad commanding the doctor to forget, feeding him a story about distant relatives generations back maybe being empaths.

_Empaths? But Dean was having the classic sensory spikes of a hypersensor?_

But the dissonance wasn't in his mind then. Then... the Dean in the hospital bed understood. The agony went on and on until finally, the very resistant doctor's tine of voice changed, and Dean could feel his thought patterens even out into something far less hostile. 

They came back into the room then, Dad and Uncle Bobby, and a voice said, "It'll be all right, Dean." His father's hand squeezed his shoulder, the first comforting sensation in a sea of endless agony, and Dean recognized the voice. 

Trust me, it'll be all right, John Winchester's voice echoed in Dean's mind.

The reverberations of truth breaking through the blocks in his mind seemed to snap him back to the present. Once again, he was here, now, in the bathroom outside his office at the FBI, a minute at best from succumbing to the worst seizure he'd had in year, his fingers trembling, unable to find the strength to fight the cap off the medication, two sets of memories running parallel in his mind fading in and out of focus.

He's been sixteen the last time he'd been this sick, and he'd very nearly died. It had been the attempt on his brother's life that had triggered it. And there in the hospital they'd been less than a week out from that clusterfuck. Dean had marveled at what Dad and Uncle Bobby had managed to do, not realizing what he would be called on to do such a short time. After all, it was only three months later that John Winchester had been arrested, and Dean had sacrificed everything in the hope of saving the future.

Three weeks and he'd...

_What about Sammy?_

He'd asked Uncle Bobby. He could remember now the fluttering panic-flop of his hear in his chest when Bobby had asked him... had told him... when he'd learned.

 

Uncle Bobby had just looked at him. Dean hadn't needed to read his thoughts. It was written all over his face.

_I won't be able to see him?_

_You won't remember him, Dean. That's the only way any of this works._

_How? How can I keep him safe? They almost killed him! They shot hia guardian! And now Dad's... How can I keep him safe if I don't even know he exists?_

_That's how you keep him safe. Dr. Shurley will recover. He will protect Sam._

_And if they come looking? What then? How are we going to protect Mom's legacy?_

_If they come looking all roads dead end. There's nothing to find if there's no_ there _there._

He could remember the weight of Uncle Bobby's hand on his shoulder in the last few moments he'd been "Uncle," before he became _Dad_ , the strength behind that squeeze, the reassurance that was full of fear but backed by faith. Powered by belief. Because that was how it worked. 

To forget. To become. 

To change who they were, who they'd been, to rewrite history, they had to--

"--Beleive," Dean said alive as his eyes flicked open.

_He hadn't remembered closing them._

With a satisfying "pop" the cap finally released from the bottle. He barked his knuckles against the unyeilding plastic ridges, but the pain barely registered. Dean knew only relief. 

_With any luck, he just might not die here._

Several pills launched over the lip of the bottle, clattering to the floor, bouncing off the counter, but Dean managed to wrestle two--no--three--into his open palm. It was too much to hold the bottle. It was getting harder and harder to hold onto anything. He could feel it coming, the wave would wash through him and then he wouldn't be there. If it took him before he could swallow the pills, chances were his brain would short out and die before the seizure was over. He couldn't let that happen. He hadn't come this far only to drop dead in a bathroom, mystery still unsolved, not rembering _why_.

He let go of the bottle. Vision tunneling, he was distantly aware of it crashing against the floor. Managed to get his hand to his mouthn reaching out with his other hand to try to steady himself against the counter as his knees buckled.

Dean slammed his palm to his mouth and forced himself to swallow just as the door flew open behind him. 

He was never quite sure what happened after that. Whirling as he fell, he came face to face with Agent Mason.

Her hand was still on the door handle, her mouth was open and she was in the middle of asking something he couldn't hear and wouldn't matter. 

And he saw it...

The dawning realization, the smug certainty on her face as her eyes flicked from his falling form, shaking hands, mouth full of pills, pills on the floor.

He swallowed. Found his voice.

"Get. Out."

He voice seemed to echo, even though the space was not accoustically compatible.

She blinked.

"You didn't see anything. Now go away and don't remember," he added with certainty. "Now get. Out."

Anna stood in front of him for a moment. Eyes blinking she looked confused...

And Dean felt his grip on reality slip as the shaking started in earnest and everything faded to black.

~~~

Sunlight filtered through Dean's eyelashes as he blinked against the sudden brightness. Consciousness returned slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat like the stuttering scratch of a broken record. There was something off about it the angle of the sun wasn't quite right, so he wasn't in bed at home. There was something else, something urgent nudging at the edge of his awareness. He couldn't remember what it was, and he was just so tired. His body was so heavy. Everything kind of ached and his mind felt thick and slow. Whatever was wrong would have to wait. He just didn't have the energy to worry about it right now.

"What the hell--"

"We don't have time for that right now."

 _Cas. Kevin._ Their voices filtered in as if from far away.

Blink.

Blink.

Light pressed against his eyeballs, but Dean's pupils were sluggish and the light kept pouring in.

Somewhere a door opened. Closed. It was distant, yet sounded and felt like it was happening inside his head.

There was tension in the air. It was palpable. _Fear. Confusion. Desperation. Uncertainty._ The emotions flooding into his mind were not his, but he _felt them as if they were his own._

_"Is the floor secure?" _Crowley__

_"Yeah." _Bella__

_"Any sign of Milton?" Kevin asked._

_Dean blinked a few more times. Consciousness seemed to be sticking with him this time._

_There was a pause followed by something that sounded almost like a scuffle but wasn't. There was no conflict associated with it, just an overwhelming sense of concern and the sound of something being dragged against carpet and drawers opening and closing. The too-loud sound of a switch flipping followed by static that drilled into Dean's brain, making it impossible for him to think._

_"Any sign of Milton?" Kevin repeated._

_"No," said Bella. I didn't see her on the floor. Locator says she's not in the building. Front desk has her logging out half an hour ago."_

_Kevin sighed. "I was afraid of that."_

_The back of Dean's neck prickled and he had an intense feeling of being scrutinized._

_"Did she do something to Agent Singer?" Bella asked. "I swear I never trusted her, but this."_

_Dean could almost see her shaking her head._

_"This wasn't Anna, not directly," Crowley said._

_"What the hell happened?" Cas asked. "Is that an IV hooked up to him? Why are we in lockdown."_

__IV?_ Dean wondered. Sure enough, when he tried to cut through the haze in his brain and managed to sift through the assortment of aches and pains, torn and spasming muscles, electrolyte imbalance, still-misfiring neurons, sure enough there was a pricking sensation in his forearm, the tickle of tape stuck to his skin. The moment he was aware of it he wanted it gone, but he stopped himself from tearing it out of his arm. Even if he could manage the coordination required, it would be a bad idea. Strange and old-fashioned as the treatment was, he knew it was all that was keeping him stable._

_As if Dean was reading his thoughts--and maybe he was--Crowley answered. "We're not in lockdown, not officially, and the IV is all that's keeping him stable."_

_"If Singer's hurt we should get him to medical, not use some sort of improvised field medicine," Bella said, concerned._

_"We _can't_ take Dean to a hospital for the same reason we're secretly, unofficially on lockdown," Kevin said._

_"Something to do with Milton?" Bella sneered._

_"Her master," Crowley answered._

_There wasa a moment of confused silence._

_"Director Browning," Kevin answered for Crowley._

_And _ahh..._ it was true. Dean had suspected, and of course Kevin had shared his suspicions, but there was a certainty in Kevin's voice that meant something had changed. They had proof. Undeniable evidence._

_"Don't worry about the IV. Dean's father gave me the equipment years ago right after Dean started working for me. I knew about his seizures and had my suspicions and he gabe me what we needed just in case. Can't say I've ever been happier to be paranoid," Crowley answered._

_The mension of his father kicked Dean's mind into higher gear. He opened his eyes again and slowly the harsh, unyeilding light started to come into focus. "W--which father?" he rasped out, throat scratchy and jaw stiff as he tried to talk around his swollen, bloody bitten tongue._

_"Ah, so you do remember," Crowley replied. "I thought that might be the case. Singer. If I'd actually _known_ rather than just suspected what you undoubtedly just remembered, we would have all been unceremoniously screwed ages ago."_

_"What do you mean, which father?" Cas was asking as Bella said, "He had a seizure?"_

_Dean tried to listen, but the buzzing in his head was too loud. Too painful. He must have made a noise, given off an audible moan, because the next thing he heard was Kevin speaking with the sort of command in his voice Dean never heard him use._

_"Be quiet. He's in pain."_

_"Zza... buzzing?" Dean asked his voice stronger. He could make out his surroundings now. The light was far too bright and his skin was on fire where it pressed against the sticky maroon leather of the couch in Crowley's office, but he could tell where he was, lying curled on his side in the recovery position, Kevin crouched near his head, Cas in Crowley's desk chair, Bella pacing near the door, and Crowley standing in front of the window. The buzzing sound was coming from Crowley's desk, more or less from the same drawer where Dean stored his jammer. But jammers weren't audible..._

_There was a pause followed by something that sounded almost like a scuffle but wasn't. There was no conflict associated with it, just an overwhelming sense of concern and the sound of something being dragged against carpet and drawers opening and closing. The too-loud sound of a switch flipping followed by static that drilled into Dean's brain, making it impossible for him to think._

_"Any sign of Milton?" Kevin repeated._

_"No," said Bella. I didn't see her on the floor. Locator says she's not in the building. Front desk has her logging out half an hour ago."_

_Kevin sighed. "I was afraid of that."_

_The back of Dean's neck prickled and he had an intense feeling of being scrutinized._

_"Did she do something to Agent Singer?" Bella asked. "I swear I never trusted her, but this."_

_Dean could almost see her shaking her head._

_"This wasn't Anna, not directly," Crowley said._

_"What the hell happened?" Cas asked. "Is that an IV hooked up to him? Why are we in lockdown."_

__IV?_ Dean wondered. Sure enough, when he tried to cut through the haze in his brain and managed to sift through the assortment of aches and pains, torn and spasming muscles, electrolyte imbalance, still-misfiring neurons, sure enough there was a pricking sensation in his forearm, the tickle of tape stuck to his skin. The moment he was aware of it he wanted it gone, but he stopped himself from tearing it out of his arm. Even if he could manage the coordination required, it would be a bad idea. Strange and old-fashioned as the treatment was, he knew it was all that was keeping him stable._

_As if Dean was reading his thoughts--and maybe he was--Crowley answered. "We're not in lockdown, not officially, and the IV is all that's keeping him stable."_

_"If Singer's hurt we should get him to medical, not use some sort of improvised field medicine," Bella said, concerned._

_"We _can't_ take Dean to a hospital for the same reason we're secretly, unofficially on lockdown," Kevin said._

_"Something to do with Milton?" Bella sneered._

_"Her master," Crowley answered._

_There was a moment of confused silence._

_"Director Browning," Kevin answered for Crowley._

_And _ahh..._ it was true. Dean had suspected, and of course Kevin had shared his suspicions, but there was a certainty in Kevin's voice that meant something had changed. They had proof. Undeniable evidence._

_"Don't worry about the IV. Dean's father gave me the equipment years ago right after Dean started working for me. I knew about his seizures and had my suspicions and he gabe me what we needed just in case. Can't say I've ever been happier to be paranoid," Crowley answered._

_The mension of his father kicked Dean's mind into higher gear. He opened his eyes again and slowly the harsh, unyeilding light started to come into focus. "W--which father?" he rasped out, throat scratchy and jaw stiff as he tried to talk around his swollen, bloody bitten tongue._

_"Ah, so you do remember," Crowley replied. "I thought that might be the case. Singer. If I'd actually _known_ rather than just suspected what you undoubtedly just remembered, we would have all been unceremoniously screwed ages ago."_

_"What do you mean, which father?" Cas was asking as Bella said, "He had a seizure?"_

_Dean tried to listen, but the buzzing in his head was too loud. Too painful. He must have made a noise, given off an audible moan, because the next thing he heard was Kevin speaking with the sort of command in his voice Dean never heard him use._

_"Be quiet. He's in pain."_

_"Zza... buzzing?" Dean asked his voice stronger. He could make out his surroundings now. The light was far too bright and his skin was on fire where it pressed against the sticky maroon leather of the couch in Crowley's office, but he could tell where he was, lying curled on his side in the recovery position, Kevin crouched near his head, Cas in Crowley's desk chair, Bella pacing near the door, and Crowley standing in front of the window. The buzzing sound was coming from Crowley's desk, more or less from the same drawer where Dean stored his jammer. But jammers weren't audible..._

_"It's the lights," Kevin said jogging across the room to hit the light switch._

_The painful light dimmed, and the buzzing lessened, but didn't go away._

_"It's probably every light amd piece of electronics in the building," Crowley murmured, suggesting Kevin's actions were futile._

_"Every little bit helps," Kevin said in response as the blinds flicked fully closed."_

_Kevin was right. It did help. But that horrible hiss remained._

_"Okay, well we obviously can't turn off every piece of electronics in the building, especially not if we want to stay under the radar," Cas was saying. "Kevin what do you usually do?"_

_"Me? What the hell would I know about this situation?" Kevin asked, annoyed and somewhat disappointed exasperation in his voice._

_That was a good question. But something about it twigged wrong in Dean's memory. Keving was an empath... were Dean's problems... But Cas completed the thought process for him._

_"Well you're... you know. What do you do with overload or whatever this is?"_

_"Dude, I'm an empath, not a hybrid. Sensory overload from the undetectable sound of electrical signals is outside my playbook. That's a hypersensor problem."_

__That's what it was._ _

_"Wait, wait, wait. Hypersensor..." Bella's blurry form began to resolve to a recognizable form before Dean's eyes. He could see she was making the universal gesture for "slow down" with her hands. "I thought the big revelation here was Dean actually is an empath, his dad too, that's why Director Singer's name was on the list... Dean's too."_

_"Well Director Singer is an empath, as is Dean's biological father--" Crowley began._

_"His _biological_ father?" Bella asked, sounding even more lost._

_"Singer's really his uncle," Kevin explained nonchalantly._

_"--John Winchester," Crowley continued._

_A Cas-shaped blur collapsed against the edge of Crowley's desk. The movement was followed with a crash. Dean thought it might have been Crowley's antique lamp. No one else seemed to notice though._

_"What the fuck?" Cas stammered._

_"I thought we thought Winchester might be Campbell's biological father. That _Campbell_ was the one who might be a ... a hybrid?" Bella asked._

_"We did, and he is." Crowley answered unhelpfully._

_"But you just said Singer--" Bella tried._

_"Yes," Crowley answered. Now he sounded smug._

_"What does this have to do with Dean? Or Anna for that matter?" Cas interjected._

_"Everything. Pay attention," Crowley replied._

__Well that's uncalled for_ , Dean thought. _

_"Now you're just being a dick," Kevin said addressing Crowley._

_Bella and Cas both gasped, probably shocked at Kevin mouthing off to the director. To be fair, Dean had never heard Kevin talk that way when other people were around._

_"Singer, said that, really?" Crowley said laconically._

_"Well he didn't use the word 'dick,' but you get the picture," Kevin paused and Dean had the distinct impression of him scowling. "This is why everyone's afraid of you and you have a reputation for being an asshole."_

_"Funny, I thought that had more to do with experimenting on mutants," Crowley replied._

_"Something you haven't done in years. So you keep your reputation fresh by messing with people at really inappropriate times, like now. And look I'm enabling you." Kevin turned. "Agent Talbot, Agent Novak, what our esteemed director is trying to say is, yes, Agent Campbell's father is John Winchester, and yes, that does make him a hybrid. John Winchester is also Agent Singer's biological father and Agent Campbell is also a hybrid."_

_"Wait, does that mean?" Cas started._

_"That Sam and Dean are brothers? Yes. And yes, that does mean Dean is Mary Campbell's lost child. As I was tryong trying to explain, yes, I have had seizures, like Dean, but his problem right now has to do with his senses being tuned too high, and I don't know how to help with that. Charlie or Sam might know, but they're not here right now, and that takes us back to the problem with Agent Milton and where she's gone," Kevin said in one long go, not even pausing for breath._

_"Shit. I'm kind of sorry for asking," Bella muttered._

_"You knew?" Dean managed to say aloud, seizing the lull in the rapid-fire conversation to make himself heard... well he had a feeling _Kevin_ would have heard him anyway, but he wanted answers and he didn't want to have to ask through an intermediary._

_His vision had resolved enough that he could see the room's other occupants clearly although even with the lights off everything seemed too bright, too sharp, and a little on the painful side of intense._

_For a few seconds there was silence and Dean was afraid Crowley either didn't understand or was going to feign ignorance. For some reason Dean seemed confident Crowley wouldn't lie... it was only later that he realized that between he and Kevin they could have detected any lies three times over._

_But then Crowley seemed to sag, looking world-weary and tired in a way the Assistant Director never did. It was as if he was finally dropping a pretense he'd maintained for years. _Maybe he had._ "I've known since before I met you that you were an empath. Your condition simply _cannot_ arise in humans. The seizures are a direct result of extreme telepathic stress--thought reading, long range empathic surveys, mood projection, thought suppression and shielding, suggestive memory manipulation, memory replacement and suppression with consent... do any combination of those tasks long enough in high enough volume and you create a sever chemical imbalance in the brain. Abnormal electrical activity is the result. The thing is if you have __ instead of some other type of epilepsy—that means you have to be an empath."_

_"Wait a minute," I thought sensors sometimes get __," Cas asked._

_"That's because they're not _just_ empaths," Crowley replied._

_"They're hybrids," Dean supplied. Because they had to be. It was the only thing that made sense. He and Sam couldn't be the first, the only. No, they were just the most prominent. The hybrids with trained, aware parents... and he was willing to bet a little more ease in utilizing both sets of abilities."_

_"Yes, but then, hybrid is a really inaccurate term. It's a continuum, not a dichotomy. Most people fall towards one end or the other, but others exist away from the end points, and it's there that you see sensors develop __," Crowley continued. "That was one of the many scientific realities I discovered when conducting my oft-maligned research."_

_"Well you _did_ hold us prisoner and _experiment_ on us," Kevin retorted._

_"And I think 'rediscovered' would be a more accurate term."_

_Crowley frowned, all hint of humor gone. "You know I've apologized. I was misguided and guilty of everything everyone thinks I am... and then when I realized the magnitude of my mistake, I had to keep up the guise or Browning and her ilk would have come for all of us."_

_Kevin frowned back. It was obvious to Dean, despite the mood whiplash and minimal context, this was an argument Kevin and Crowley had had many times before._

_"I know... that's hardly an excuse or justification for taking children from their parents, for pushing their tolerances to the limits," Crowley admitted, sounding genuinely chagrined._

_"No," Kevin agreed, "but I'm beginning to believe you're right… that anything else and Browning would have been onto all of us a long time ago."_

_They held a glance for a couple of beats before Kevin nodded and Crowley turned back to Dean. "So to finish answering your question, I knew you had to be an empath before I ever met you. Suspected it of your father--Singer--before you joined the Bureau, but didn't have confirmation until he gave me that kit."_

_"Wait," Cas interrupted, "if Singer isn't his biological father, maybe he's not--"_

_Crowley's glare cut him off. "I knew because he compelled me to keep quiet about it. Very weakly, and intentionally, as I believe he meant it as a test."_

_"And when you didn't say anything, you passed," Dean realized._

_Crowley nodded, "As for the rest of it, I began to suspect years ago, but only seriously considered it around the same time you did." He looked at Dean pointedly, "I wasn't lying when you came to me last week. I really didn't know for sure. I suspected a little more strongly, perhaps, since Linda told me the whole story years ago, but I wasn't going to say anything in case I was wrong. While you were out, when your memories started to break, you projected all of it on Kevin, which is how we knew to look for Milton."_

_"She got away," Dean said, fear rising in his chest._

_"Yes." Crowley's voice was soft, almost apologetic._

_"She won't remember... I told her to get out." Dean knew though; he knew he'd fucked up somehow. There was something he did or didn't do or should have done... "I was too... blunt. She's going to scan as manipulated."_

_Crowley nodded._

_Dean's breath hitched and his hearing flared out of control._

_"But that won't lead back to you," Cas said. "If anyone scans Milton, yes, there will be an investigation. But it's not like that's going to show an individual signature or anything..." He trailed off._

_Kevin and Crowley were exchanging nervous glances, and Dean knew exactly what they were thinking._

_"We do," Dean murmured, "if you know what to look for." He raised his eyes to Crowley._

_"It was one of my closest-guarded secrets, but Naomi Browning us powerful and manipulative and has long had the sort of supporters who pose a serious threat to everyone in the world and would gladly see the death and destruction of every single mutant on the planet. I can't guarantee she never learned what I discovered, and I certainly can't promise she didn't figure it out on her own or torture the knowledge out of someone," Crowley admitted._

_"But that's not my biggest concern," Crowley added addressing the group._

_The statement earned him a few raised eyebrows._

_Kevin's statements about intent, willingness of the recipient, focus, and scope of manipulation ran through Dean's brain merging with fragments of surfacing memories. _Of course!_ "The alteration won't hold," Dean realized. "I was in pain and afraid and I was acting mostly on instinct... there wasn't enough time for any finesse and I wasn't..."_

_Cas was looking intently at the old-fashioned injection kit and nodded. "It's okay Dean, we get it."_

_"It was more of a projection than any kind of memory manipulation. It'll break--" he paused to breathe, feeling the crushing weight of exhaustion and weariness pulling him back down. "Given enough time," he continued, "it'll break on its own, but with Naomi's prodding..."_

_"Well, when is she going to head to New York?" Bella asked._

_"Naomi's not in New York," Crowley said softly. "She's moved to a Satellite office in Portland and has been operating out of there since assigning Anna Milton on the task force."_

_"So having a mole looking over our shoulders wasn't good enough?" Bella spat._

_"Not if the reaction time was too long," Dean answered. It made perfect sense really. And there was more... something else that had been bothering him about Milton from day 1. It wasn't just her mood or the pervasive dishonesty and ulterior motives that Dean was now able to recognize. No there was something... deeper... some kind of signal? Something about Milton that wasn't strictly her. Every time she had taken a call from the "home office" immediately after a field assignment. Every conveniently timed summons she'd received without obvious explanation. He'd wondered if Naomi was reading their minds, if somehow she had employed an empath to spy on them without their knowledge. But Naomi Browning didn't work with empaths. "She has a tracker implanted on Anna. When Anna left here, she knew. If Anna didn't head to Naomi directly, she would have contacted her... wouldn't take very long for things to snowball from there." He turned to Crowley. "I know I'm in no shape to say this, but we have no time. We're all in danger. This morning, they found another body. Another note. I'm next. Which means they're moving on my dad... on Bobby. We've got to secure him and we've got to secure John Winchester... and _Sam..._ "_

_"What is it, Dean?" asked Cas._

_"He's remembering his brother," Kevin said softly._

_"Where was Campbell and Bradbury's last known location?" Dean asked._

_"They were scheduled to leave on the transport from Morningside 15 minutes ago," Crowley answered._

_"Good," Dean nodded, then more convincingly, "Good." He looked up and met Crowley's eyes as he carefully levered himself to a sitting position. "You're not going to like this, but I think we should sent Kevin to meet them. I have a feeling... no I'm _certain_ , Sam just got a similar revelation to the one that just downloaded itself into my brain. That means he's going to be aware of his empathic abilities, but not necessarily confident in their use."_

_"I'll do it. You want us to try to head back and rescue Winchester, don't you?" Kevin replied._

_"Pieces of a puzzle. That's what Chuck Shurley said, right? Well, I've got one, Sam's got one. And Winchester and my Dad, Uncle Bobby... Agent Singer, have their own pieces. Their own knowledge and parts to play. If we want to figure out the whole message, we've got to collect the set. Before Naomi and Anna get to them._

_"So I guess we're going to get your other dad?" Bella asked._

_"Yes, yes we are."_


	12. Chapter 8

“You’re going to tell me what you know.” Browning said again.

Sam was still foggy about how they’d gotten there. He remembered the interview with Winchester. The helicopter ride back from the prison. He’d been freaking out about the explosives the entire time, secure in the knowledge his _father_ was alive. A father he never thought he would meet, and the man was sitting at the bottom of a mountain rigged to blow and bury him alive. Then Charlie’s phone had rang. There had been a message something about Kevin meeting them in Moscow. He thought they _might_ have landed and met up with Kevin, but everything was just a great big blank. He’d managed to steal a glimpse of the wall chrono and there were almost 24 hours missing.

Opening his eyes, he wasn’t surprised to see Charlie and Kevin were there with him. Where ever _there_ was.

His shoulders ached and his head hurt, and judging from the look of both Charlie and Kevin, he had a feeling he’d been beat up, maybe been in some kind of crash. Would Browning do that? Crash a shuttle for the sake of incapacitating three people?

_Yes. Yes she would._

“He doesn’t know anything,” Kevin spat.

The tension in Sam’s head increased.

“If I wanted your opinion—” She said

“Yeah, yeah, you’d beat it out of me,” Kevin said. “No I’m not reading your mind. I could, because those stupid inhibitors you take don’t actually work on me or anyone else with half an ounce of control, and yes, that includes Agent Campbell, untrained as he is. In fact, I already did skim through your thoughts, so I know you are an even bigger idiot than I thought you were—”

Kevin kept babbling. Sam felt the pressure increase in his head again. No, not his _head_ , his mind. Like someone was trying to tell him something?

_Oh._ Sam blushed at his stupidity, but blamed it on the probable head injury. He was restrained and couldn’t move his hands to feel his head, but he was pretty sure there was a goose egg there.

“—because you’re so overconfident you took us back to Morningside. You think your precious prison is so safe, but you’re stupid enough to bring us inside one of the interrogation cells.”

Sam was still struggling to make out the message Kevin was trying to send him, but he was pretty sure Kevin’s _words_ had meaning too. The message, when the static in his mind coalesced into words, weren’t Kevin’s, but _Dean’s_ : “We’re coming.”

And that’s when Sam realized the significance of Naomi’s words. The holding cells were next to the control room. From here, if they got free, they could release prisoners from their cells. They could even _defuse_ the explosives. Or they could open the holding cells, clear the way to the repair tunnels, and set the mountain to blow after they escaped.

“Kevin’s right,” Sam answered at last, spitting around a split lip. “I don’t know anything. I not for sure. I just have theories.” He smiled. “But the person who has _memories_ is coming.”

~~~

"The last contact we had was a little over 90 minutes ago," Cas said softly. "She's got Kevin. Charlie and Sam too."

Dean looked down at his hands turning them back and forth, staring searching. Lines on his palms; scars that had new meaning. 

"They'll hold out against interrogation. They'll figure out a way to cover their tracks," Cas added. It wasn'y reassuring. Wasn't meant to be. Cas believed himself all right. That wasn't the problem.

It was just that they could all follow the truth to its logical conclusion.

"That won't matter. They cover for themselves and each other and there's only one place that will lead her." Bella voiced the reality they were all trying to ignore. 

"John Winchester," Dean finished for her. _Dad_... His father. _Not Dad._ Two images flickered side by side in his mind. John Winchester. Bobby Singer. _Dad and Uncle Bobby._ Cousin John and Dad. Two streams of memory. Not one real and one false, hut both real. Both true. One of his fathers had just offered his life to buy them time. Hope. A glimpse of a chance. His other father, a distant memory even in truth, was about to be executed to silence Dean, to silence their last best chance at bringing Mary Campbell's vision to fruition. 

"If we leave now," Cas was saying, "we can probably get you in a chopper before they lock down this airspace. That will buy us time. The confusion will make them sloppy, open up holes in border patrol. We can use the opportunity to get you someplace safe. Between the three of us we've got enough connections we can find a placw you can lay low, avoid detection..." Cas swallowed hard, his eyes turning to Dean with a mix of trepidation and pity. _We'll find a nice, quiet corner of the planet where you can live out your life in peace."_

_Dean blinked. Flashes of light behind his eyes. Sam at the office grinning after getting away with another death-defying, protocol-bending stunt. Sammy as a baby. Sammy as a four year old. Sammy as a ten-year-old, small for his side and looking up to his friend, buddy Dean so much. Sam. _Sammy_. Flick. Flick. Flick. _Click._. Sam and Sammy were one in the same. Yeah he'd known that. But there was something entirely different about knowing somethimg intellectually and knowing it in your soul, understanding what that meant, _comprehending_ all of the implications. _

_"Dean, we don't have much time," Cas prompted._

_"Are you out of your mind?!" Bella was shouting._

__Maybe it was time to see how deep the rabbit hole went..._ _

_"We really don't have a choice."_

_"No."_

_The single word echoed in the stillness._

_"What?" Cas asked, stopping mid inhale._

_Dean's eyes flicked up to see Bella looking back at him, a mixture of pride and defiance in her eyes._

_The images flicked by. He and Dad (Bobby) on the porch getting the horrible news. Making the decision. Sammy ten, screaming for help in the aftermath of an explosion, Chuck's broken body, bloodied, next to him. The las time he'd seen his father (John), eyes full of regret, touch filled with a sense of desperation and terrible, terrible purpose. _The best way you can protect your brother us by taking yourself out of the equation. If there's no you to find, they'll leave him alone. Keep an eye on him, but give him a chance to grow up. You'll have another chance when you're older._ Dad (Bobby). Flick. Flick. Flick..._

_His memories._

_His brother's._

__Side by side in his mind._ The final piece clicked into place. _

_He stood, mind only peripherally aware of what his body was doing. "We do need to leave."_

_"But you said--" Bella sounded confused, hurt._

_"Thank god. I was starting to think--"_

_"But we're not going into hiding." Dean looked Cas in the eye as he spoke._

_"What?" Cas demanded._

_Bella just smiled, crossing her arms._

_"We're going to rescue John Winchester--"_

_"You can't be serious!"_

_"And Sam and the others are going to help."_

_"Holy shit." Bella spoke that time, disbelief laced with utter joy._

_Cas's jaw dropped, eyes flicking from Bella back to Dean and back to Bella._

_Dean smiled, feeling something like hope for the first time since that damn body had showed up on his doorstep. _Save me from the winter of our discontent.__

_"Are you forgetting the part where according to Sam and Charlie, Winchester is buried under a hollow mountain and lake-sized moat both rigged with explosives. Or the part where Sam, Charlie, and Kevin are prisoners of someone who wants to kill you very, very dead._

_“Yes and my father just handed himself over to Agent Milton and they’re headed there right now.” Dean tapped his temple. “He’s projecting kind of loud. Naomi thinks she’s gathering everyone there to bury them, well, we’re going to follow her… and set our own trap.” Dean spared Cas a glance, but didn't stop smiling. "Agent Talbot," he addressed Bella, "what's the max range of telepathic communications between empaths of the same family group."_

_"Officially, it's a hundred clicks. Unofficially... Deputy Director Crowley recons it's almost limitless. An empath on earth could communicate with one on the moon if the relationship was strong enough."_

_"I thought so."_

__

~~~

Three thousand miles away a spike of certainty and steadfast determination cut through the fog and delirium Naomi's drugs had induced in Kevin's mind.

Across the room Sam groaned, head snapping up from where it hung limply against his chest, since their latest round of interrogation, his eyes wide open and suddenly clear. "Dean," he said.

"Um, guys, what's going on?" Charlie asked uncertainly.

"We're getting out of here," said Kevin and Sam in unison.


	13. Chapter 9

_Boom!_

While Sam and Kevin had succeeded in distracting the guards while Charlie worked them all out of their restraints and they had together used the prison control room to direct and reroute the explosives so that Dean, Cas, Bela, and Kevin, with Bobby Singer in tow could break in through the maintenance tunnels under the moat. The small matter of Naomi returning had resulted in all hell breaking loose. 

Most of the prisoners they’d freed had fled into the tunnels ahead of them, but the explosions were coming closer and closer together… directed, carefully selected by Anna and Naomi to cut them off, box them in.

“ _Think_ , Dean,” Bobby pleaded. “Deep down you know there’s more to the secret. I can’t remember it. John can’t remember it, because your mother ensured that only _you_ would know. That only you would be able to forget and to remember. But I know that piece of the puzzle is what can save you—save us _all_ now. No matter how powerful an empath is, none of us can break a person’s mind. We can bury memories deep. We can make others believe, we can make ourselves believe, but we can’t erase what was, what _is_. That’s the truth about us no one wants to accept. You _know_ this.”

“Bobby,” Dean whispered, swallowing hard, tears falling unbidden into his eyes. “How did you hide this all this time? If you know enough to know that I need to remember? How did they not find out? The government. The Bureau?” 

“I forgot when I had to forget and remembered when I had to remember, because the world’s a fucked up place and if I laid my soul bare for all to see, it would have chewed me up and spat me back out onto the refuse pile of the universe, and I didn’t want to live like that. Especially not when there was so damn much I could _give!_ ”

“I—I don’t understand,” Dean was blinking faster, his heart hammering in his ears. Everything he’d believed about himself had been reshaped and remolded within a matter of weeks. It was _New Year’s_ … not even a month had passed, since the mess had started. And while he was instinctively wrapping his head around his abilities… _both_ sets of abilities, he didn’t understand what he could be forgetting or how it could save them now.

“Dean, goddamnit! We don’t have time for your little freak out. Bobby pointed at the tunnel door. “Director Browning has an entire platoon of select prison guards and a heaping handful of special forces about to break down that door. The tunnels are collapsing around you. You need to reach inside yourself, see the truth… _believe _it, become who you are, who you were, who you were always meant to be?”__

__Dean felt his eyes bugging out in his head because he had _never_ not in a million years ever heard his father—Uncle Bobby—whatever, use that kind of language._ _

__Only…_ _

__Somewhere in the back of his mind a strange, half-remembered image seemed to flit through his mind as if trying to evade detection, but brushing up against little notches and groves in his memories that seemed to fit, seemed to recall _something_ , some time, when Bobby had uttered similar words… Something his mother had said. Mary Campbell… Mary _Winchester_. Blond hair. Sunshine. Smiles. Melancholy and loss underneath it all, she wasn’t an empath, not more than a tick on the scale, so she couldn’t hide it from him, though she tried, it was always there._ _

__The wall shook with a resounding _boom_ as the reinforced steel door bent inwards under the force of the ram. Dean couldn’t tell if they were using a sonic ram or something more… arcane, but the construction, sturdy as it was, had been weakened by all the prior explosions and wouldn’t stand a chance against any kind of prolonged assault._ _

__At that moment Sam and Charlie came sprinting around the corner from the other direction._ _

__“It’s blocked,” Charlie panted. “There’s no way out.”_ _

__“What the?” Dad—Bobby—asked, drawing Dean’s eye along with his voice._ _

__Then he noticed exactly what was happening. Sam had someone—Anna?—Dean shuddered involuntarily, bound by her wrists and being led along behind him. Taking another assessment of the three who had just popped up, Sam and Charlie both sported bruises and cuts that hadn’t been there before, so Dean was willing to bet Anna had put up one hell of a fight._ _

__“Why?” he rounded on her. “Why did you do it? Don’t you realize that Director Browning betrayed her oath? That all the evidence we’ve gathered suggests _She_ was responsible for Mary Campbell’s assassination? That _her_ associates complied the list, her pet agents—” he trailed off._ _

__Anna’s expression twitched._ _

__“You assembled the list!” He said in shock._ _

__“Bravo, genius. Too bad you couldn’t think fast enough on your feet to save your life. Or save little Sammy’s here,” Anna taunted. “Sure, we had assistance in carrying out the cleansing. But identifying your kind? Sniffing you out? That was me. You really bought that I was just her, what…. Lapdog?” Anna asked._ _

__The way she said it… _Sammy_ , there was no significance in the name for her, but something about it tripped and triggered that rough spot in Dean’s memory. Mary ( _Mom_ ) and him and Sammy… _baby_ Sammy, just a few months old. It had to be one of the last times he’d seen her._ _

___He was dreaming again. People were shouting as he ran through the forest. But they were shouting without words. With their hearts. Their souls. Their minds._ _ _

___Boom!_ _ _

__The ceiling shook again, plaster cracking, and brick crumbling, dropping debris on their heads as Charlie tried to break up the standoff, move them away from the now-dangerously-dented door…_ _

__But Sam’s eyes were wide. Realization pouring off of him. His senses seemed primed and synced and …_ _

__How could Dean possibly understand?_ _

__“Dean, for the love of god… In the name of your _mother_ —“Defend yourself!” Bobby screamed over the rending sound of steel tearing free from the hinges as it was propelled down a narrow tube._ _

___It doesn’t work that way, boss. I know my mom told you. We’re powerful, but no one’s infallible. Even when we can change someone’s thoughts, alter their memories, it takes an inordinate amount of energy. And deep down, there will always be a defense. When you’re back’s against the wall, you’re your life depends on it, the illusion will shatter. It’s inevitable. That’s one of those secrets they don’t want you to know!_ It was one of the first things Kevin had ever said to him. _ _

__“Hands on your heads! On the ground now!” Director Browning’s voice echoed in the hallway._ _

__“Protect myself!” Dean whispered. The rough spot in his memory twigged a little more. An itch tweaked until something tore free._ _

__Sunlight. Spring rain. Grass. Brilliant lights. Impossible sound. Too bright. The head of a pin. Rushing racing. Anger fear. Sam. Sam. Sam…. Mommy. A picnic. Someplace safe and warm and home… like family… _Your brother is your soulmate, Dean, just like your Daddy John is mine. Together we’re stronger, together we’re---__ _

__And the world came back to him, white brick, dust, guns, strike team. Angry human director. But behind all of it, in his soul, in his mind-- _in Sam’s mind_ , was his mother—their mother—Mary’s voice. Telling her secret._ _

__Dean raised his hands and turned, Sam moving with him in perfect unison. _Empath and Sensor. Pieces of a puzzle together more powerful, more aware, safer, stronger…_ There was no way Naomi could stop them. They could blast through the tunnel doors with their _minds_ if they had to._ _

__“Lower your weapons,” Dean said, projecting naturally. “I remember. I remember everything."_ _


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

“As we gather here today on the Thirty-Frist Anniversary of Mary Campbell’s death and the Thirty-Fourth Anniversary of the ratification of the Campbell-Shirley Accords, it is my honor to share with you the accomplishments we have finally achieved.

“We’re still a long way from the world my mother envisioned. The world she died for. But we’re making steps in the right direction. 

“I stand before you as an FBI agent, the son of a martyr and a terrorist, neither empath nor sensor, but both. I am human too. Let’s not forget that. That was the message my mother wanted all of you to learn, to internalize, to understand.

“No matter how bad it gets, not matter how scared you are of your neighbor, of your enemy, of the places in your mind you don’t want to see the light of day. We’re all in this together, hurtling around the sun on the same planet. Facing the same fears. Some of us have different strengths and weaknesses. But we’re all fallible. And we are all capable of great good.”

_The End._


End file.
